


where are we going? (we're going down, down)

by fraisage



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Domestic, Excessive References to Dick-Punching, F/M, Feminization, General Absurdity, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisage/pseuds/fraisage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles is one of the most infamous alphas on the London scene. More accustomed to bottle-service and five-star meals, somehow he ends up in the middle of nowhere being fed pot noodles by the most adorable little omega he's ever set eyes on.</p><p>Louis Tomlinson is a saint. He'd say so himself because he's just saved a baby alpha from starvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are two things Louis Tomlinson knows to be true. One, that he’d had the best arse out of all the omegas in sixth form no matter what Eleanor Calder said. And two, that as of right now, if he doesn’t make it to the corner shop by 1AM that he will starve to death on this miserable Sunday night.

Hence the reason he has been sprinting across town for the last ten minutes when he could be cuddled up in bed with a cup of tea. Because while tea is lovely and indisputably the best drink in the entire known universe,no matter what Eleanor said, it isn’t very filling and makes him need to piss.

 

*

He makes it to the shop with ten minutes to spare, because the universe would never let the best arse in Doncaster starve to death, no matter how many dicks he’s punched.

The surprising thing is that he isn’t the only customer in Syed’s Snacks and Sundries, although he reckons he will be soon since the force of Mr. Syed’s glare is something to be reckoned with. Well he wouldn’t know, since Mr. Syed always greets him with a great big sunny smile— probably because he’s his best customer. But the lumbering giant cowering by the pot noodles looks like he’s about a second away from crying. His lower lip is looking rather wibbly.

Well anyway, he’d better shove over if he knows what’s good for him. Nothing gets between Louis Tomlinson and 50p pot noodles. They’re the top secret behind his perpetually perky bottom.

He walks over to the shelf getting ready to sweep it clean of his supper for the month when his lovely thoughts of filling his tummy with Piri-Piri Chicken or Bombay Bad Boy are interrupted by the loudest, most frankly inhuman noise he’s ever heard in his nineteen years of life on this Earth.

The fact that the sound has clearly come from the stomach of the boy beside him does not make any of that an exaggeration, thank you very much.

Anyway, the giant baby can quite clearly take care of himself without Louis’ intervention, seeing as his nanny has seen fit to let him out so late all by himself, and he can practically hear his warm, comfy bed calling out for him to hurry the fuck up and get back to his flat so he can eat his noodles in both peace and comfort.

Louis’ thoughts on the merits of comfy eating versus clean sheets that don’t smell of chicken seasoning are interrupted when the guy lets out the most pathetic whimper he’s ever heard just as Louis has filled his arms up with enough styrofoam cups to make Mother Nature weep.

“Hungry…,” whimpers the giant, pouting down at Louis and giving him the sad-eyes, which have never worked on the great and powerful being that is Louis Tomlinson, even though the boy is honestly quite cute, a bit like the class frog they’d had in year 5. Although Froggy hadn’t had the curly mop top.

Honestly he’d thought that kids were still taught basic maths and survival things like that by year 11, but apparently not if this guy couldn’t figure out how to buy food when he clearly wasn’t hurting for cash. He was wearing all the sorts of things that Lottie and mum liked to squeal over on the telly. Right fashionable things, all sorts of rings and crap like that.

While Louis was still contemplating the merits of wearing such a ridiculous amount of rings (there weren’t any), the giant had sidled over and seen fit to intrude into his personal space.

“Hungry…,” the man-child whimpers again, although this time he’d bent down inches away from Louis’ face. “Well then go and buy something you big lug!” Stan always says that Louis gets about a hundred times meaner when he’s hungry. The look on the big guy’s face, bottom lip threatening to evolve into a full-on pout and what may be the faint glisten of future tears in his eyes is testament to this. Not that Louis cares of course, he’s not here to make friends, he’s here for the noodles and only the noodles.

“I haven’t got any cash,” says Pouty-Face, as he draws out a matte black card from his jacket pocket. He proffers this offering to Louis like a villager trying to appease an angry god. And not that Louis isn’t quite flattered—perhaps he’d misjudged the poor boy, but anyone who’s lived in the village long enough knows that Syed’s Snacks and Sundries is cash only, no exceptions.

The policy has been in place since his mum was in school, and maybe even long before that. Mr. Syed hadn’t put two daughters through school accepting any newfangled credit cards, and he probably wasn’t going to start now if he hadn’t after Reema was done reading law at Oxford.

Louis takes the card, he doesn’t need it and has never had one himself, but he might like to try lock-picking in the future and the guy is giving it to him after all. The card says ‘American Express’ in big blocky letters, with numbers running across a picture of a man in a funny hat. Below that, is “Harry E. Styles.”

“So your name’s Harry, then?” he says, looking up at the guy. He’s responding just like a puppy that’s just learned it’s name is “Bananas” or something like that, all eye-crinkles and shit. Louis wants to snark at him about how there’s no point in carrying around this bit of plastic if he hasn’t even got a quid in his pocket, but the kid is clearly starving and Louis is feeling very kind towards pathetic souls tonight, and also he is hungry as fuck and this kid has already imprinted on him or some shit like that. Louis has always wanted to be a mummy and all that omega crap but he never thought it’d be this soon. Plus, given the average height of his family he never thought his first kid would be six feet tall.

“Well _Harry_ , how would you like to come back to my shitty flat and have some shitty pot noodles?” he sighs with the long-suffering air of someone who’s grown up as the oldest of eight siblings who’d all really liked pot noodles—and stealing pot noodles from their older brother before he’d even gotten a bite.

The giant frog-puppy gives him another eye-crinkle, “I’d love that, baby.” The nerve! “That’s Louis, Louis Tomlinson to you,” he sputters, dumping the noodles into Styles’ arms before dragging him towards the register. These young alphas don’t have any manners! He’s sure he’d never been that cheeky at sixteen. He’ll have to teach his son what’s what as soon as possible!

Mr. Syed gives Harry the full-on beady-eye when they get there. Louis’ been coming here since he was six, for crisps and sweets and things like that. Louis would say he’s as nice to him as his own omega daughters, after all he’d aided and abetted the great Danette pudding hoarding of 2005. He’d even say Mr. Syed is as protective, but Ayesha is a licensed self-defense instructor and Louis is only a master of stealth dick punches. He’s probably even more wary of any of the people Louis has ever hung around with than anyone Ayesha “I can flip alphas twice my size” Syed could bring home.

“It’s okay Mr. Syed, I’m just gonna feed this poor soul and send him off to school in the morning,” Louis assures, nodding to himself at his sheer, unadulterated kindness. He dismisses the funny look Mr. Syed gives Styles, because even he’s surprised at the things money can buy these days. Apparently rich people now prefer having alpha babies that inevitably grow into gigantic sixth-formers. Personally, Louis has always found 5’7’’ to be a very flattering height. Mum and Lottie and Eleanor and Stan and everyone else he’s asked seem to agree.

He pays for the pot noodles, nodding at Styles to retrieve the plastic bag full of their dinner before dragging him out of the shop.

 

*

They get back to his flat in twenty minutes, and it only takes a second after he’s turned the key before Harry E. Styles is treated to the makings of Louis’ lavish palace. Well, it’s more of a bed-sit really. But he’s got a kettle, a bed, and even a tiny little shower and toilet. Plus, most of the sockets work so the place is great for what it is and doesn’t even cut into Louis’ pot noodle-budget. So, palace it is.

Louis puts the kettle on and in no time at all they’re sitting down to eat as many noodles as they see fit. Well, Louis is sitting down and Harry is sitting on the floor because some palaces only come with one chair and obviously the king is the one that gets to use it while his lowly subjects grovel at his feet and revel in his pot noodle-generosity.

“So what brings you here to my end of the woods, Styles?” Louis asked. Posh frogs don’t end up in the middle of nowhere when they should be gallivanting around London or whatever it is frogs do in their spare time.

“My mates and I thought we would go camping for the weekend. The bastards thought it’d be funny to strand me out here,” Styles says with a self-deprecating grin. The nerve of this kid with his eye-crinkles, and now fucking dimples are making an appearance!

“I can understand that. Me and the lads got up to all sorts of things in sixth form,” Louis nods along wisely. One does not become a master at dick-punching by living an uneventful life.

It should be noted that while Louis Tomlinson can put away three pot noodles on a good day, and imagined that Styles is the same when he was putting the kettle on, this kid is obviously some sort of human black-hole who whimpers and gives Louis the eyes until he fills up the kettle and lets him devour four more. Seven pot noodles. This kid has eaten seven pot noodles. Louis is sure that he’ll read the papers tomorrow and find that Harry Styles is actually a suspect in having eaten his entire family. “Fugitive family-eater spotted in Doncaster!” will be the headline, if he hasn’t eaten Louis all up by then. Not that Louis doesn’t like to be eaten, but he’s always enjoyed the “tongue-up-your-bum” version more than the “Hannibal Lecter” kind.

 

*

At the end of the night, it’s 3AM and Louis is tired as fuck from being a good Samaritan. What he does his toss Harry a blanket off his bed, but not a pillow, because Louis cannot sleep with less than three pillows at all times and Styles’ coat is clearly billowy enough to act as a pillow, along with a “Good night” before he crashes face first into bed and passes out almost immediately.

Unfortunately, this means that in his extreme state of fatigue he doesn’t notice Styles crawling into bed with him. Well, of course he notices in the morning when he finds out that Harry E. Styles is a massive, unapologetic cuddler. He even puts up with it because obviously Styles is a growing boy who needs his rest and they went to bed at 3AM. But he’ll be damned if he lets his kid miss school, well, what’s left of it as it’s already noon, but still. He can’t miss the school run on his first day of being a mummy!

Louis gives Styles a little slap, and then a bigger slap, and then an even bigger slap when he doesn’t get up. By the fifth slap he looks like he’s slowly coming to consciousness, which is good because Louis doesn’t want to mess up his first school run by giving the kid a concussion.  
“Hurry up Styles, you’re already late for school. What about your uniform?” he says, because the kid is clearly loaded, and must go to some fancy public school.

Styles is groaning and rubs his cheek before he answers, “What the fuck are you going on about Lou-baby? What school?”

Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, because honestly kids these days! “School, Harry, school! S-C-H-O-O-L. The place where you go for learning to make something of yourself when you’re an adult! It’s Monday you know!”

His statement seemed to help Styles fully awaken. Good! It’s important for kids to think about their future! But it doesn’t explain the bemused expression on the guy’s face until he asks,“Lou, how old do you think I am?”

Honestly, when did kids these days start asking such stupid questions? “Styles, you’re obviously a sixth-former, and I would be worrying about getting into uni about now if I were you. Attendance does count for something you know,” he states firmly with a nod. Harry should be so grateful to be getting this advice from a worldly elder.

“I’m twenty-four, Lou.”

“What.” And there goes the damn dimples again.

“Twenty-four,” Harry says, drawing out his words like Louis is slow or something.

“What,” is the only thing he seems to be able to say. But Harry is already reaching into his coat, abandoned on the floor the night before, drawing out his leather wallet and handing Louis a little plastic card. Which, Louis has had enough of Harry E. Styles and his little plastic cards thank you very much. But this one is a driving license, complete with a photo of Harry’s dopey, dimpled face on the front. And under “Styles, Harry Edward” is “01.02.1990.” Which means that Harry Edward Styles is twenty-four.

Twenty-four. Two. Four. Harry Edward Styles is twenty-four. Louis Tomlinson is nineteen. Which means that Harry Edward Styles is five years older than him. Which means that Louis had brought a twenty-four-year-old alpha into his flat thinking he was helping and feeding a sixteen-year-old knotless idiot who’d gone out camping with his mates in Doncaster on a weekend lark.

Of course, Styles doesn’t seem to realize that Louis is freaking out. What he does do is wrap his arms around Louis waist and nuzzle his face into the small of his back, “Let’s sleep in today love, I don’t have to be back in London for another eight hours.”

Louis stares down at Harry’s arm around his waist, which is a lot more muscular and covered-in-ridiculous-tattoos than it’d looked last night. His shoulders had also looked less broad under the fluorescent lights of the shop. And his hair was still curly as fuck.

Harry sits up a bit after Louis doesn’t respond, looking him right in the eyes, “Lou?” There’s the eye-crinkle. But he’s looking into the face of a man. A wolf, not a baby frog. Louis is Red Riding Hood, lured into the sinister wolf’s bed, never mind that it’s his bed. “Lou?” he says again, and this time he even has the nerve to dimple at him.

There’s nothing for it. There’s no other solution. It has to be done.

Louis punches him in the dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try slowly easing into the alpha/omega bit of this story. Feel free to ask for clarification on any bits of this, although if anybody is totally confused I suppose that's a failure on my part.
> 
> I don't plan on any big blow-ups or dramatics for this. Maybe just lots of cuddling. The other lads will show up soon.
> 
> I've just gotten into 1D fandom, and I have no idea how I've gotten here. Somebody help.
> 
> I'm not British so excuse any Americanisms/lack of Brit-picking. If I've completely messed up anything do tell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sweeter, a little sadder. A lot shorter. Harry's gotta get back to London to get the ball rolling.

Harry’s groans of pain are interrupted by the sounds of a mobile ringing. It’s coming from the bastard’s coat, which is lying in an artful pile on the floor. Louis rifles through it before he can grab hold of the damn thing and hit ‘accept’, intending to inform the caller, “Big Payno,” that they are friends with an absolute idiot, but he’s rudely interrupted by the sounds of a man on the other line saying, “Goddamnit Hazza, where in the bloody hell are you? You were supposed to wait for us at that shop on the corner while we went to find some petrol!”

Louis is giving Harry some seriously side-eye while he’s listening to this, because it’s beginning to sound like those “bastards” that left him didn’t abandon him so much as this giant idiot had wandered off. With him. To eat pot noodles and cuddle. Harry only blinks at him with big, innocent eyes that don’t belong anywhere on a supposedly twenty-four year old alpha.

Payno’s still ranting on the line, something about Gemma and a party, when he interrupts, “This isn’t Harry, but you needn’t worry as he’s still alive for the time being. But the great knothead might not be if you don’t come pick him up in the next half hour.”

His answering voice is met with silence. Well that is until the whoops and cheering start. “You hear that lads, only our man Styles could manage to pull even out in the middle of nowhere!”

Louis must be on speaker phone. This Payno is clearing talking to someone in the background, and he probably doesn’t intend for Louis to hear, but quite frankly Louis is getting more annoyed with this conversation by the second.

“Excuse me, _Payno_ , my name is Louis. Louis Tomlinson and your idiot friend did not ‘pull’ me, thank you very much,” Louis says with all the sarcasm he can muster on an empty, tea-less stomach.

The guy on the line is sounding suspiciously amused, instead of properly chastised when he replies, “Well _Tommo_ , my name is Liam Payne, and I’d like you to tell my dear friend Harry, if he’s there, that if he makes us late for his sister’s party tonight he will definitely be getting his arse kicked. By several people. So wherever he is, would you put him on the line, please?”

Honestly, if all Londoners are this overly-familiar Louis is happy to stay in Doncaster until the end of his days. “Of course I can put him on the line, he’s right here beside me in bed. I’ll give the phone to him as soon as he lets go of his cock,” Louis says.

Liam’s incredulousness is clear even on the phone when he asks, “So what you’re trying to tell us is, that Hazza is in your bed. Holding his cock. Right now. And you’re telling us he didn’t pull you last night?”

Honestly, it’s true that birds of a feather flock together, because Harry Styles’ has clearly made friends just as bright as he is, which is to say, not at all. “Yes Liam, he is in my bed, holding his cock, because I’ve just punched him in the dick,” Louis hopes Liam can hear his utter distaste for Harry Styles and his ilk over the phone.

There’s a roar of laughter out the other end when he says this. Definitely on speaker phone. Liam’s voice is a little hoarse from laughter when he answers, “Put Hazza on the phone would you? It’s really a matter of life or death here, mate.”

Louis gives a great big put-upon sigh down the line before handing the phone to a still wincing Harry, whose giant hands are no longer cradling his dick. “Talk to your friend Styles, tell him you’re still alive and not being held hostage. I’m going to put the kettle on. We’ve still got a few pot noodles left,” he says before he sits up and shuffles toward the kitchenette.

 

*

It’s been ten minutes since he’s put the kettle on. He’s getting ready to pour the boiling water into the cups when the sound of Harry muttering into the phone finally stops and he sidles up next to Louis. The pervy-bastard has the nerve the rest his chin on Louis’ shoulder before he says, in a voice that genuinely sounds put-out and sad, “I’ve gotta get back to London, baby. My sister’s got a party going on tonight and she’ll kill me if I’m not there.”

Louis doesn’t know what any of this has to do with him. He doesn’t know Harry’s sister, and he certainly doesn’t have a car or anything to drive him the two hours or so it’d take to get back to London. Not that he’s ever been, but he’d checked in a moment of wishful-thinking and convenient access to Google Maps. Therefore all he says is, “Do you want your noodles and tea to go, or do you still have time to eat ‘em?”

Harry gives him a beaming smile back, “We’ve still got time. The boys are picking me up at the scary man’s shop in forty minutes.”

Louis rolls his eyes, Mr. Syed isn’t scary at all, especially if you’ve seen him crying tears of joy over Reema’s acceptance letter like Louis has. “Well you better hurry up and eat then, it’d be rude if they got there before you,” he says, handing Harry a fork.

Harry demolishes two pot noodles and three cups of tea with twenty minutes to spare. Louis knows that he can get to the shop in ten minutes if he sprints, which means he has to leave now. Louis takes his time bustling about, clearing the cups and throwing away the used styrofoam and plastic in the bin while Harry washes his face and puts on his coat.

Harry’s waiting at the door once Louis has finished, which, obviously he’s waiting to say goodbye when Louis is really only making his way over to kick this ungrateful peasant out of his palace. Never mind that he’s already guaranteed to be late at this point.

His plans are foiled when Harry brings his big hand up to his cheek, leaning down to press their foreheads together. “I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can Lou,” he says, as if they’re in Love Actually or some crap like that. Which is a film that Louis completely hates, thank you very much. Because what’s romantic about the Prime Minister doing anything for the omega of his dreams? He can also tell you that there is no way that any real prime minister in history will ever be as fit as Hugh Grant. Anyone who’s seen David “Iggle Piggle” Cameron on the telly can attest to that.

Louis’ thoughts about the realism of _Love Actually_ are interrupted by Harry opening the door and stepping out. He watches as Harry starts jogging down the stairs, although the alpha does throw one last look over his shoulder, shockingly not falling down the stairs in the process, “Let’s have a proper date next time, Lou!” he says with a great big grin.

Then the alpha’s gone, out the door, out the building, down the street, and in all likelihood out of Louis’ life. Forever and ever, amen. He says it like a prayer, as if he’s really thankful that he’ll never see him again. And it’s not a lie if only Louis knows the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end it on a sad(?) note. As well as at only about half as long as the first chapter, come to think of it. 
> 
> No need to worry though, as I have a feeling all will be well by the next chapter, although there will be a bit of a time-skip. I've still got to work out all the story notes and the many assorted bits and bobs I've typed out, but I have a good feeling that Big Payno's going to be making an appearance in person next time. Here's hoping. I've got some stuff planned for Zayn and Niall as well.
> 
> Thanks for all your kind comments and kudos, I'm terrible at responding individually (always afraid I'll say the wrong thing), but do know that I've read and smiled at every single one of them. To the kind commenter that Brit-picked for me a bit, who pointed out that Doncaster is anything but a village, I did wikipedia everything but decided to just go along with the Doncaster-tiny, London-huge concept. I'm trying to get a country-mouse, city-mouse thing going, so I'm having to change the facts a bit.
> 
> One last thing, I do plan to include some feminization and other kinks that can be a bit particular (e.g. Louis' hole might be called a pussy/cunt/etc.). Fair warning, as some of you may already be prepped/hyped for this (well you saw the Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics tag didn't you?), but once the tags start being updated with these specific things, beware all ye who enter here if it's not your cup of tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam solves problems, as he does.

Liam Payne, aliases Big Payno, Payne Train, and Two-Kidneyed Lying Liar Who Lies, has no idea what he did to deserve Harry Styles’ friendship. Murdered someone in his last life, probably. Hopefully he’d cleaned up after himself, because Liam likes to think that he’s been tidy in every lifetime.

The thing is, Liam hadn’t quite realized Harry was basically a vortex of bad ideas until after they’d progressed beyond “friendship” and settled firmly into “blood brothers,” and by then there’d really been no way of backing out. He imagines it’s much the same for Zayn and Niall. They’re all known each other for so long that everything, work, play, their families, are all twisted up in each other. He’s still getting birthday money from not only his gran but Zayn’s, Niall’s, and Harry’s, which would be less embarrassing if Liam wasn’t already twenty-five years old and didn’t need to be getting anymore money to spend on sweeties when he could be spending his own money on pick’n’mix or what have you. The aforementioned blood brotherhood is probably also why they’d all gone with Harry on his “I need to commune with the wilderness right this instant” jaunt, all in the name of preparation for Harry’s next album. In hindsight, deciding to do this the day before Gemma’s party seems exceedingly stupid. But at the time, it’d seemed like such a good lark, and they’d all planned it out to a T. The plan and been this: drive out, have a bit of fun for a night, get some petrol and get back to London with a few hours to crash at Harry’s flat before Gemma’s party. Arrive at Gemma’s party looking fresh as hell, and no one would be the wiser.

It hadn’t even seemed like such a big deal when Harry had gone missing from the cornershop they dropped him off at to get snacks for the trip back while they went to get petrol. Harry went off by himself all the time, he probably had pulled his usual routine of “making friends” with whatever random, attractive person he came across. Meaning Hazza, the bastard, probably got to sleep in a comfy bed while Liam and the boys had kipped in the hire car. Of course, they did start panicking a bit when Harry hadn’t come back in the morning and wasn’t answering his phone.

Liam had decided they were “So fucked, oh God, we’re _so fucked_ lads” once they’d had to start debating their chances of survival if they went back to London without Harry. Consensus: zero chance of survival once contact with Gemma “I am half a foot shorter but ten times stronger” Styles is established. They’d been full-on panicking when Harry had finally answered his fucking mobile. Of course it’d been some “Louis Tomlinson” who answered, but once the (rather sassy) man had confirmed that Harry was there and still very much alive, Liam had downgraded them from “So absolutely fucked, someone save us Jesus, Mary, and Joseph” to “We’ll all get through this as long as Gemma doesn’t find out.”

And Gemma wouldn’t have found out if Harry, the utter bastard, hadn’t told Gemma to come around his flat to drop off their outfits for the party on the morning of, only for her to discover her brother not there and not answering his bloody mobile. Unfortunately for him, Liam does always answer his bloody mobile (his mum has taught him manners, thanks), which is why Liam had to hold his phone a good foot away from his ear as Gemma was screaming bloody murder at _him_ , instead of her bloody brother. Another downside of being Liam Payne— he can never be rude enough _not_ to answer a call. And also he’s always been the responsible one so everyone _always, always_ calls him. Niall’s nanny had even called him once looking for him—like the good friend he was he hadn’t told her that Niall, her precious grandson, had at the time been passed out next to him wearing nothing but his precious guitar.

Anyway, he thought it’d all be alright once they collected Harry (the horny bastard) and hightailed it back to London, but really, it’d all gone to hell in a hand basket from there.

 

*

Because although they’d arrived back in time for the party, they’d also arrived back with more than enough time to face the wrath of Gemma. Which consisted of her tossing them all around the room while recalling all their embarrassing childhood memories until they begged her for mercy. Gemma is hands-down the scariest alpha Liam knows just based on the sheer amount of embarrassing information she has on them. She’s known him since he was in nappies, for god’s sake.

The party had been fun enough, although Liam, in his completely unbiased opinion, thinks it would’ve been better if Gemma had let him deejay like she’d promised, but apparently “Naughty little alphas who don’t behave shouldn’t expect to be rewarded for their bad behavior.” Which was so, so unfair. He was gonna tell Nanny S all about how mean Gemma was the next time they had a chat.

At least the drinks and the catering had been good, a real step up from the cheap and cheerful banners and fairy cakes of their childhood parties. Even if the party was all about showing off clothes, and they were just there to be Gemma's eye-candy. Of course Harry the mopey bastard had spent the entire party sitting in the corner slamming drinks, utterly ignoring any and all girls and guys clamoring to get him to take them home. Alpha, beta, omega, he’d ignored them all. It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal then or even when they’d all passed out at his flat at five in the morning, Harry’s sudden refusal to take any warm body home. But in his defense Liam had been too busy trying to get them all back to the closest flat (Harry’s) in one piece without anyone cracking their skull open and landing them all in the A&E for the night.

 

*

Of course now, it’s been a week and everything’s gone to hell. Whatever happened between Harry and that omega Louis, has seriously fucked him up. The irony is that even though they’d gone into the “wilderness” to help Harry with his songwriting and music, he hasn’t been able to write a single good song in its entirety since they got back. He’s in a complete and utter rut, and not the good kind that happens twice a year with loads of sex. It’s like all he’s got is half-finished thoughts and ideas stuck in his head, which means he’s churning out baffling nonsense lines like “The pot noodles were lovely, your bed was so soft, I’d like it very much, if we could get each other off.” Basically, Harry’s been whining every day for the last week about having to get back to Louis and how he has a date with Louis and how he wants to have so many, many babies with Louis. It’s driving them all up the wall. It’s Louis this, Louis that, Louis, Louis, Louis twenty-four seven.

Liam feels bad for Niall especially, who, although he has the patience of a saint and undoubtedly wants to be there for his _friend_ Harry, would also like his _client_ , singer-songwriter Harry Styles to make an appearance and do his fucking job before the bigwigs at the company decide enough is enough, and that letting Harry have a friend as his manager isn’t working out. It’s all well and good when Harry says things like, “Nialler, I think my next video should definitely revolve around Louis’ absolutely glorious arse, could we do that?” but not if Harry can’t even put together enough lyrics to make a song that would be worth making a video.

Zayn, the weak shit, hasn’t even come around in the last three days, not after Harry had suggested, “God Zayn, you should’ve seen him, he was a work of art! You should totally paint him when you meet him!” The twat’s run off somewhere under the guise of needing to buckle down and work on some pieces for his next show. In reality, he’s probably holed up in his flat having the time of his life _not_ listening to Harry wax poetic about Louis’ “Fucking amazing arse mate, you wouldn’t believe how perky it was.” At this point, he’d believe anything if Harry would just shut the fuck up. Liam wishes he could run away like Zayn, but it’s impossible since he and Harry both live in the same building. So he’s had to field questions like, “Do you think it’s too soon for us to move in together, Payno? Do you think Louis will be okay living in the flat, just until we need to get a bigger house for the children?” Before it’d seemed like such a good idea at the time when Zayn suggested it, living across from Harry, claiming it’d be the best way to keep Harry safe if Liam was always ready and there to save him with his “super doctor powers and shit.” Of course, this would come back to bite him in the arse (and he’s going to kick Zayn’s) when Liam’s ready to murder Harry himself.

 

*

It’s almost been since two weeks since their terrible, no-good, very-bad idea to go camping (aka, what Harry likes to call his “serendipitous meeting with my future-wife Louis), when Liam decides he’s had enough. He needs to fucking do something, “something” being _fix_ Harry.

Liam corners him in his apartment, which is to say, he goes up to Harry as he’s laying on the floor in a pathetic pile of sadness and Harry doesn’t make any attempt to move away. “You’ve got to snap out of it mate!” he yells, while grabbing Harry’s shoulders and giving him a good, hard shake. Harry just lets out an little whimper. “For god’s sake, just go back and see him then, god knows what’s keeping you!” Liam shouts, and it’s a testament to how completely gone Harry is at this point, because usually he gives Liam the sad-eyes when he shouts, he positively hates to be scolded, _especially_ by Liam. It it’s possible, Harry deflates even further at Liam’s words, turning his head away and letting out an unintelligible mumble.

“What’s that, Haz?” Liam thought he’d already drilled into Harry’s head the importance of enunciation and avoiding alpha-grumbles, but apparently everything’s fallen out of Harry’s head to make way for the bewitching omega that is Louis Tomlinson. “I can’t find him,” Harry says, his face the picture of sheer misery. “I can’t find him, I can’t call him because I’m the huge idiot that didn’t get his number, and it’s been two fucking weeks and Louis probably thinks I’ve abandoned him!” Harry whines.

“My god, Styles, don’t you know we live in the modern fucking age. Why don’t you just google him, ’Louis Tomlinson Holmes Chapel’ simple as that?” Liam really questions his friendship-making decisions, sometimes. “ _God_ Payno, don’t you think I’ve bloody done that already. There are hundreds of Louis Tomlinsons in the UK, and none of them live in Holmes Chapel,” Harry spits out, and he looks as if he’s deflating more and more by the second, “Obviously wherever it was we went, it wasn’t fucking _Holmes Chapel_. Liam thinks he can see Harry literally turning into a puddle of sad, heartbroken alpha on the floor, before his very eyes. “ _Hundreds_ of Louis Tomlinsons Liam. By the time we get through them all _my_ Louis will probably have already found a better alpha. One who takes him on dates when he says he will, and gives him kisses and babies and Liam _help me_ ,” Harry whines.

Liam almost can’t stand to watch, but he’s got to be the responsible one here. “Well, there are plenty of other ways to find him besides Google, have you tried contacting MI-5, maybe?” Okay, Liam’s _trying_ to be supportive, but he finds it all a bit insane that his friend’s going crazy over an omega he’d known for less than a day. Louis might in fact be some sort of enchantress to be holding this much power over Harry Styles, who’s basically never had a long-term relationship in his life. And now he’s talking about having babies, not that Harry hasn’t always constantly talked about babies, but Liam’s always imagined that Harry’d end up having about ten babies all with different mums, not all with one person! Liam is rather convinced that Harry isn’t so much in love with Louis as he is with the idea of him, the mystery omega that got away, so to speak.

However, let it never be said that Liam Payne is not a good friend. He’ll help Harry find Louis, recruit as many of their friends as they need to find Louis, and even wildly embarrass all of them if it means he never has to deal with anything like what happened after Gemma’s party two weeks ago. Like the good, completely shitfaced friends they were, they’d all stumble-dragged Harry back to his flat after he’s drank himself into a complete stupor, and they’d all gotten papped for their trouble. Liam never wants to see anything close to the headline “ _Alpha Orgy at Styles’, Liam Payne Leads the Way!_ ” in the bloody fucking _Daily Mail_ ever again. And no, Liam was not “leading the way” thank you very much, he was just the only one who wasn’t so completely pissed that he didn’t remember the way back!

 

*

The plan Liam comes up with is this, essentially all they have to do is try to get papped as much as possible, holding signs like “Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson Forever!” or “Louis Tomlinson Where are You?-Harry Styles.” It’s devastatingly simple, and Liam’s ninety-nine percent sure it will work. The one percent chance of it not working would be if the tabloids suddenly decided not to photograph and report on every single thing they— “singer-songwriter Harry Styles”, “doctor-cum-DJ Liam Payne”, “noted artist Zayn Malik” or “Irishman Niall Horan” do, which is a very, very fat chance. Just last week the Daily Mail had printed a photograph of Zayn dropping his mobile on the pavement, with the headline “Malik Falling Apart! Friends and Family Worry as the Noted Artist Battles Drug Problems!” Niall especially is rather enthusiastic about the plan, as he’s already got an entire wall dedicated to all their ridiculous articles.

So for the next three days every single shit paper that people clandestinely read before guiltily lining their hamster cages with the evidence runs headlines like “ _Who is Louis Tomlinson, and What’s He Done With Our Hazza?!_ ” Which is to say, Louis and Harry technically haven’t done anything, yet, but they will be soon if Liam has any say in it. Because it’s working surprisingly perfectly, with the paps eating it all up. Although the plan is clearly brilliant, Liam still spends a lot of time assuring Harry that Louis will definitely see at least one of the papers, and when he does they’ll be reunited and live happily ever after, and “You’ll have tons of babies Haz, don’t worry.”

 

*

The crux of the plan is that anyone and everyone reads the rags at some point. Everyone in London, that is. Unfortunately for Liam and his “brilliant” plan, Louis lives in the middle of nowhere and isn’t much interested in the tabloids. He cares about footie scores, not whatever the hell the players are getting up to in the privacy of their own homes, thanks.

However, fortunately for Harry’s heart (and Louis’ in the long-run), while Louis himself doesn’t read crap like the _The Sun_ and all its ilk, he does have some lovely, helpful friends who do in fact read such crap, are very familiar with Harry Styles and his pretty-boy gang, and would like to know why the hell Louis’ name is being printed all over the papers.

Which is why Louis gets a text from Eleanor at two in the morning with “HOW DO YOU KNOW HARRY STYLES?!?!” All-caps, with none of her customary wink-y or smiley faces. Which is how Louis knows he’s seriously in deep shit. Because he realizes that Harry Styles, the alpha he hasn’t seen in over two weeks to the day, and the one he’s been seriously trying to forget about (surreptitious googling notwithstanding), is definitely not as gone forever as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going down, down, like the quality of writing for this story.
> 
> Added a "slow build" tag, so don't expect anything close to sex for several chapters. If you noticed, they haven't even kissed yet. I haven't even decided how many inches Harry's dick is going to be, for Pete's sake.
> 
> To quote George Clooney, the Daily Mail is "...the worst kind of tabloid. One that makes up its facts to the detriment of its readers and to all the publications that blindly reprint them." If you had the choice between poison oak leaves and the Mail, I would recommend you use the poison oak.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor's in. Louis is desperate for tea. Zayn is a clever, clever boy. Naughty old people.
> 
> Guess who's back?

Louis William Tomlinson, believe it or not, is a bit of a homebody. Wild though his teen years may have been (not really, they’d been full of fair-to-middling grades and far too much cheap cider), now that he’s an “adult,” he doesn’t leave the house much except to do the shopping and sometimes for work. Rare though that may be, as he essentially works from home. It’s the perk of being the head editor ( _fine_ , only editor) of the sole newspaper in town and quite possibly the smallest paper on the face of the Earth. All the writers are little old retired ladies and gents who like to write about things like gardening and the results of the last village fête.

The other perk is that it just so happens that Mrs. Hudson, head recipe writer and three-time winner of “Best Victoria Sponge”, is also the owner of Louis’ building. Tiny and cramped though it may be (Louis preferrs _cozy_ ), he wasn’t going to turn up his nose at a clean, tidy living space he could rent for _exceedingly_ cheap.

Plus, all the members get a kick out of calling him the “in-house editor” when they meet for tea on Sundays, in order to discuss the next week’s issue.

Essentially, Louis gets a comfy, clean, cozy home for the price of a little proofreading, fact-checking, and the ability to operate MS Word.

 

*

All in all, Louis likes to think he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He doesn’t much care about celebrities, his interest in fashion amounts to whether or not it’s warm enough to be sleeping completely starkers (that is, no interest _at all_ ), and his knowledge of politics amounts to knowing the name of the current prime minister.

Therefore to Louis, tabloids are in general, a waste of time, wi-fi, and trees (to those partial to the printed word, or in need of hamster cage-liner). He simply doesn’t like to mess about obsessing over celebrities and _who_ or god-forbid _what_ they’re currently shagging.

Louis intends to approach his personal life in the same vein, because he’s got a good life, and he isn’t going to mess it all up pining for some alpha he’d known for less than twenty-four hours. Brief sojourns into insanity with aforementioned alpha notwithstanding.

 

*

Unfortunately for Louis, he has quite a few friends who both read tabloids religiously and are heavily invested in his personal life. Or lack thereof, as it were. One of these people, again, unfortunately for Louis, is Eleanor Calder.

Eleanor, who’d been his teenage fuck-buddy. Eleanor who’d packed up and off to London and Central St. Martins as soon a she’d gotten her acceptance letter. Eleanor who’d remained not only one of his best friends but also apparently knew a certain alpha who Louis was, once again, _absolutely not pining after_.

Eleanor, who wasn’t going to take Louis’ brushoff-via-text (“Who?” complete with confused-face emoji) sitting down. Eleanor who texted back “Facetime. Now,” in a way that Louis knew meant that he should open up his laptop A.E.C— as Eleanor commands.

 

*

The face on the screen is the same as it ever was, except Eleanor’s holding up a newspaper emblazoned with the headline “Lovestruck Styles Going Out of Style?”

To which Louis can only say, “What.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes, “You’re all over the tabloids Louis, dear,” and with a spectacular flourish of the paper, beings reading,

“ _Devoted readers of the Mail will know that that singer-songwriter Harry Styles hasn’t been quite the same since the night of his elder sister, designer Gemma Styles’ party celebrating the debut of her F/W2015 collection. Since the night Styles was spotted leaving the party with a gaggle of his most loyal friends, he has not been seen with his usual omega-of-the week. Although some suspect that Styles may have turned his attentions inwards, looking for love among his closest friends and confidantes, such as noted artist Zayn Malik, those in-the-know have come to realize that something else is afoot. The Mail’s confidential sources have suggested that Styles is enamored with a mystery omega outside of the London scene. Further sleuthing indicates that this might be the “Louis Tomlinson” that he has apparently been fervently searching for the last two weeks. Industry insiders have indicated that Styles’ career could take a turn for the worse with these revelations. One source, who wished to remain anonymous, stated, ‘His latest album sales are tanking now that everyone knows he’s looking for a steady relationship. Harry’s known for being a bit of a rogue, y’know? The fans want the ‘bad boy,’ that’s what sells out arenas, not some lovestruck idiot being led around by his knot._ ’”

Once she finishes, Eleanor lets out a dramatic sigh, “I can’t ever forgive you Tomlinson, getting famous before me!” She holds up the photos so Louis can see, his name clearly written in big letters on the signs being toted around by the (apparently) who’s-who of London.

Even though he knows he’s trapped, Louis tries desperately to maintain plausible deniability. “Honestly El, are you out of your mind? They could be talking about any Louis Tomlinson! I don’t even know who Harry fucking Styles is, and we’ve definitely never met, ever, ever, _ever_!” And Louis _definitely_ hadn’t spend a night in bed with him. Cuddling.

Eleanor gives him a look. _The Look_. The one that says, “You’re not fooling anyone, you fucking cunt.” She brandishes the paper again,

“ _Sources close to Harry Styles have said that he seems to be completely, utterly enamored with ‘Louis Tomlinson,’ whom he met following a brief outing in the country. Among close friends, Styles has not held back, apparently saying, “He’s the only one that I need. I dream of that perky arse sometimes, you know. And the things I could do to it!_ ” she finished with another flourish.

“Everyone and their mother knows that the first thing anyone with eyes has noticed about _you_ , _Louis Tomlinson_ , the exact _Louis Tomlinson_ that is being mentioned in every fucking rag in the city, is your arse and the fact that you could bounce coins off it it’s so perky!” Eleanor exclaims, “God knows I was in it enough times to know firsthand!”

Louis sometimes forgets that Eleanor’s a bit of a know-it-all. “How do you know my arse is still pert and perky, huh? It could’ve deflated since Easter. Maybe I have to wear special support underwear now because I’ve got a great, saggy bottom,” he says, not at all petulantly. It hurts him to say such denigrating things about his arse, really.

Eleanor gives him another look, this time the “Did I fuck all your brain cells out in sixth form?” one. Which is unfair, since they certainly haven’t fucked since they were seventeen, and Louis couldn’t have spent two years after that living his life with no brain cells.

Louis is trying to remember why he’d let Eleanor fuck him at all in the first place. Sure, she’d been very pretty, and by far the best pick for a fuck-buddy of all the alphas in their year (mostly because she wasn’t eager to actually _mate_ Louis and get him started having their ten kids or some shit like that), but Eleanor’s always liked getting her way just as much as Louis has. Most of their “relationship” has consisted of fucking during their respective ruts and heats and then driving each other up the wall all the time in between. Stan had not enjoyed being caught in the middle.

They’d both know that things weren’t going to last between them. Eleanor wanted a big city life and Louis wasn’t willing to give up his life in Doncaster, and they didn’t love each other enough (or really, in _that_ way at all) to want to tie each other down. So, their friends-with-benefits relationship had been downgraded ( _upgraded_ really in their mutual opinion) to simply friends.

And apparently, what Eleanor wants to do, as his friend, is bring up weirdo alphas Louis would like to, and has been actively trying to, forget all about. “C’mon Louis, just give him a call or something! I have his sister’s number you know, I bet he’d come running if you just gave him the word! This is Harry Styles we’re talking about! Harry Styles who sells out arenas but still finds the time to help little old ladies cross the street. I know he’s exactly your type Louis!” Eleanor wheedles, not letting up at all.

Which is to say, Eleanor’s a great friend but she wouldn’t be bringing all this Harry Styles’ bullshit up if she wasn’t getting something out of it.

“What’s this _really_ about El?” Louis asks. He tries to sound stern, like he can totally see right through Eleanor’s intentions (although he can’t).

Eleanor gives him a big, beaming smile. “Well, I’m glad you asked Louis! Y’see, it’s just like I said. I’ve got his sister’s number. Gemma, you know? She’s like the biggest up-and-coming designer since god-knows-who. She came and gave a speech in one of my classes last semester ‘cause she was one of the professor’s best students and she’s just freaking amazing Lou! I’m just in awe of her greatness, and I’d give an arm and a leg to get an internship with her, y’know!”

Louis loves her to pieces, but god can Eleanor babble when she’s excited. At least she’s as straightforward as can be. The girl goes after what she wants, when she wants it. Even if Louis has to be her sacrificial lamb.

But this isn’t something Louis is going to budge on. “Nope, no can do El. You know I’m not about that life. I’m not going to call some alpha out of the blue just so they can pretend not to know me. It’s all tabloid shit anyway. I bet they photoshopped them all or summat,” Louis shrugs.

Eleanor’s face goes really earnest when Louis says this, “Oh Louis, it’s not you know. I’ve seen them in-person. I don’t think it’s a some big publicity stunt or anything like that. Liam Payne was holding one y’know. And he’s supposed to be the sensible one out of Harry’s friends, like, he’s a doctor and everything. As sensible as an alpha can be, anyway. I really think you should try Lou, he seems like he’d be really good for you. I’ve heard Harry’s really nice, not at all like the tabloids try to make him out to be. And anyway, you shouldn’t sell yourself short life that Louis! You know I don’t settle for anything but first-rate pussy! Just like how I won’t intern for anyone but the best!”

Sometimes, Louis hates the fact that he knows Eleanor so well, because he can tell she’s being totally, completely sincere. She’s just pressing about the internship to coverup how much she thinks Louis needs to do this, just for himself. But he’s not ready to admit that she might be right, because then he’d have to wonder why, if Harry’s so into him, he hasn’t come back.

“It’s just not going to happen, El. And I know you know that you’d be able to get that internship you want through sheer force-of-will alone. Everyone with eyes can see you’re an amazing designer. You don’t need me and my arse to do it, no matter how perky it is.”

On the screen, Eleanor looks like she wants to, but Louis ends the call before Eleanor can get another word in.

After talking with Eleanor for two hours, it’s already four in the morning. And all Louis wants to do is try to get some sleep. He doesn’t want to think about Harry and what-ifs anymore.

 

*

Louis gets up at 10 AM, after only six hours of sleep, and it’s still just a regular old Sunday. He does a bit of catch-up work, calling Mrs. Weatherby and confirming that she did win “Best Pie” last week with a _rhubarb_ pie and not _strawberry-rhubarb_.

After Mrs. Weatherby confirms that her prize-winning pie was indeed rhubarb, complete with an offer to bake one of her pies for Louis to try (to be covered in an in-depth review in the paper, of course), Louis putters about a bit more in his flat. Washing up dirty dishes, folding laundry and all that, until it’s almost 4 PM.

Which is when his trusty news team have all gotten back from church and are ready to have tea downstairs. After the night he had, Louis is ready to enjoy a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

Even if Mrs. Hudson only ever has PG Tips and rich tea biscuits.

 

*

Of course, unfortunately for Louis, his dreams are shattered when he makes his way downstairs to find, not his group of erstwhile reporters, ready to regale him with tales of who’s growing the largest lettuce or tallest hollyhocks, but an entire fucking film crew setting up in the middle of Mrs.Hudson’s living room.

Louis spends all of ten minutes standing in the fray like an utter idiot before Mrs. Hudson calls out, “Come help me in the kitchen with the tea, would you dear?”

On auto-pilot due to his confusion, he makes his way into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Pettigrew are excitedly chatting by the stove. Louis, if possible, only gets more confused.

The kitchen table is piled high with plates and plates (on what he knows is Mrs. Hudson’s wedding china, the set she’s sworn never to use for anyone but the queen!) of biscuits. The nice sort that Louis sometimes dreams about, when he’s morosely dunking rich teas (the only way he can get them down, really).

But now, they’re all here on the table. Chocolate digestives and penguins and all the other “posh biscuits” that Ms.Hudson scoffs at. All the sorts that Louis doesn’t buy unless they’re about to expire and therefore greatly reduced in price, to the point where buying a packet wouldn’t make Louis’ woefully thin wallet weep.

It’s all very suspicious to Louis, made even more so when he spots a box of Twinings’ open on the counter. _The plot was thickening._

His impromptu foray into mystery-solving is interrupted by Mr. Pettigrew, who says, “Isn’t it exciting Louis, dear? The BBC’s come to interview us!”

There are many things that Louis could have imagined this to be about, but one of them isn’t that the BBC has come to interview the staff of a tiny newspaper with an equally tiny circulation. So, all he can reply to Mr. Pettigrew revelation is, “ _Us_?” rather incredulously.

Mr. Pettigrew chuckles, “Well, not _us_ exactly. But some of us, Mr. Portendorfer and Mrs. Febland!”

Louis can think of very few things either Mr. Portendorfer or Mrs. Febland might be interviewed about by the BBC of all things.

Mr. Portendorfer, head of the gardening column, whose chief hobby is growing obscenely large cabbages and sharing them with family and friends. It’s all very kind and generous, but it does tend to make the village smell of cabbage for a few weeks every summer. And Mrs. Febland, chief agony-aunt, who makes amazing sour cherry pies.

Louis doubts the BBC is here to interview either alpha about neither cabbages nor pies, and so, all he can ask is, “About what?” He knows he has a way with words, thanks very much..

“Well they’re here about the _census_ , Louis. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it!” Mrs. Hudson says.

Louis has in fact not heard all about it, but thankfully Ms. Hudson doesn’t hesitate to go on.

“They’re going to interview Terrence and Geraldine about their rare surnames! Supposedly, they’re only one in fifty!”

The only thing Louis can think is that it’s definitely a slow news day. Especially since the BBC doesn’t occupy itself as much with reporting on whose shagging who on the second Tuesday in May or whatever.

Anyway, any further questions Louis has on the subject will have to wait, since they hand him a plate piled high with biscuits and a pot of steaming tea, before ushering him into the parlor. They’re close behind him with the cups and more biscuits.

Louis was just looking for some tea.

 

*

When he makes his way into the parlor, the interview has already started. All the rest of his intrepid news team are already gathered around the room.

Mrs. Febland is talking to the interviewer, “Well, you know, when I was a little girl all my family lived around here. There were so many of us and I didn’t think my name was special or anything like that. But now everyone’s gone away or married off. Most of my family were omegas, you know. And my husband and I, all our children were omegas as well. And now you’ve told me that I’m one of the last Feblands left.”

Louis can see Mrs. Febland’s getting a bit teary. Even the interviewer’s eyes look a bit damp. It’s the perfect time to step in, “Tea, everyone?” he says, placing the offering on the coffee table.

Mrs. Febland immediately gives him a little smile, “Oh thank you, Louis dear. Come and sit down, won’t you?” she says, patting the place beside her on the settee.

Once Louis sits down (he doesn’t have much of a choice, not when he’s this desperate for some tea), the interviewer asks, “Oh, is this one of your grandchildren?”

Mrs. Febland is giggling, “Oh no, this is Louis Tomlinson from our newspaper just like I told you about, he’s our in-house editor!”

The room bursts into titters at that. A bunch of comedians, they all are.

Mrs. Febland is still chuckling when she says, “All of my grandchildren have been married off, you know. But Louis here, he just happens to be _single_.”

Subtlety is not and will never be Mrs. Febland’s strong point. God knows her cherry pie is a punch in the face in itself with how much brandy she likes to put in it.

Louis kind of checks out for the rest of the interview after that embarrassing ordeal. It’s a rather short segment all-in-all, although Mr. Portendorfer does get to show off one of his enormous cabbages for all to see. He also insists the interviewer take it home, doesn’t give her a chance to say no. The lady, alpha though she may be, looks completely comical weighed-down by the huge vegetable.

Apparently the video be up on the website for the BBC News Magazine by Friday at the latest, as soon as the editing’s done, not that anyone will really bother to watch it. It’s just an interesting fluff-piece to fill out a slow news week.

 

*

There are many benefits to working from home, all of which “noted-artist Zayn Malik” has been known to take advantage of.

While Liam’s no-doubt already writing his hundredth prescription for some medicine or the other, and Harry and Niall are slaving away in the studio, Zayn on the other hand doesn’t tend to rise until at least 1PM.

After getting up, he usually makes himself a cup of tea with an inordinate amount of sugar (he does it by taste, the exact amount is a mystery in itself), and sits down to surf various websites and catch up on the day’s important news.

Of course, once that’s done, he then has to move on to the day’s important “news”, the kind that Zayn likes to draw inspiration from. Or so he says.

Niall likes to go on about the fact that Zayn’s the biggest procrastinator of his generation, but he doesn’t understand. Zayn has a _process._

Which is why on this lovely Saturday afternoon, Zayn’s browsing the BBC News website on his laptop, reading and watching anything and everything that catches his eye. And today, by serendipitous chance, a video entitled “The Last of a Dying Lineage” catches his eye.

Zayn clicks the ‘play’ button without hesitation, and the voiceover begins, “ _We’re here in Doncaster today to speak to some of the last…_ ”

After five minutes of boring background voiceover, the camera pans into a sitting room filled with little old men and women. The interviewer faces the camera and says, “ _We’re here today to speak to some of the last holders of some distinctly English surnames. As we said before, there are now fewer than fifty people each that can lay claim to some of these names. Here today, we have Mrs. Geraldine Febland and Mr. Terrence Portendorfer…_ ”

Zayn zones out for a bit as the interviewer drones on again, until he notices a little figure suddenly making his way on screen, saying “Tea, everyone?”

It looks like the guy (who is a bit short but otherwise very good-looking, Zayn thinks) really lifts the mood in the room, as everyone starts laughing and joking.

Zayn’s not paying his full attention to the interview really, once he notices his mug’s almost empty, and he’s about to get up to refill the cup when he hears “This is Louis Tomlinson,” come out crystal-clear from the speakers.

Louis Tomlinson. _Louis_. _Tomlinson_.

He’s found Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson! Louis Tomlinson of fucking _Doncaster_. _Not_ fucking Holmes Chapel.

Zayn’s pretty fucking excited actually, he’s half-smiling and everything.

Of course, this is the moment that Liam enters his flat, saying “Hey, I thought we might get an early dinner?”

Zayn just lays back in his seat at the kitchen table, drinks his last sip of tea, and says, “Liam, you idiot,” with a little smirk.

 

*

Louis doesn’t think too much about the interview in the following days. Of course, the film crew had sent them a copy of the finished work. And they’d all gathered around in the sitting room for a special viewing, before Mr. Pimm had archived it away, “for posterity.”

On the next Sunday, when Louis is walking back from the cornershop after running errands for Mrs.Hudson, “Could you buy some tea, Louis dear? I’ve run out and there isn’t enough for the meeting. Just a box of PG Tips will do, if you would."

Back to PG Tips and rich teas it was, then. Louis was more than a bit morose about it after feasting on the lion’s share of the leftover “posh biscuits” for the last week.

He’s reminiscing about the taste of sweet, sweet partially-hydrogenated chocolate coating when before he knows it, he’s already back at the door of his building.

Which doesn’t explain why there’s suddenly a huge, hulking presence behind him with great big arms going around him and—!

Louis doesn’t think twice before he sets his legs apart, lowering his center-of-gravity and flipping the kidnapper over, onto his back.

He’s feeling a bit smug and triumphant at this point. Although he’s only ever had a chance to practice them on dummies, Ayesha’s lessons had paid off after all.

Of course, he starts to feel a little less so once he looks down and sees that the perpetrator is less “crazed alpha marauder” and more “Oh my God, Harold! Are you alright?”

Because looking up at him from where he’s lying on the pavement (not very far though, as Louis is admittedly rather short), is Harry. Fucking. Styles. Who’s wincing and looks like he’s kind of in pain.

Probably because Louis had just flipped him and landed him smack into the ground.

Louis’ marvelous self-defense skills aside, he hurriedly tries to help Harry up, the tall alpha still wincing a bit as Louis helps straighten all his crumpled limbs out. He’s looking pretty happy though for someone who’d technically just gotten his arse-kicked.

Once they’ve set Harry to rights, Louis almost can’t believe his eyes.

Because here’s Harry Styles again, a month to the day after he’d seen him last, standing in front of his door.

Harry’s smiling though, crowding him up against the door. He bends down so they’re almost nose-to-nose, foreheads touching, and says, “Did you miss me, Lou?”

And then Harry Styles, with his eye-crinkles and dimples and much-too curly hair is giving him eskimo kisses. Outright nose nuzzles. The mind boggles.

Before he can even think twice, Louis is bursting out, “Yes!”

If possible, Harry’s smile gets even wider, and fuck, Louis thinks he might be about to kiss him.

He certainly looks like it, because Harry’s face is getting even closer to his face and their lips are pressing together and—!

The door they’ve been leaning against suddenly flings open, leading Louis to fall back and Harry on top of him, until they’re both lying in a heap on the carpet, in the entranceway.

Mrs. Hudson is looking at him, shocked but curious, “Oh Louis, I thought there was something going on with all the commotion outside, and I just wanted to see—”

She cuts off once she notices that Louis is very much not alone, because there is obviously, obviously a giant on top of him. Crushing him, really. Not that he’d be complaining if they were in bed.

Her confused face breaks into an rather odd smile, “Well dear, if I’d known you were just having a bit of fun, I wouldn’t have been so worried! Is that the new trend, going about it in public? You know in my day we thought short skirts were scandal enough!

Mrs. Hudson gives him an utterly dirty wink, “You have fun than dear, but do be safe! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, although you know I’ll try anything once!”

She walks off back inside, no doubt to call and tell everyone about “Louis’ visit with his gentleman caller right out in the hallway!”

Sometimes, Louis likes to forget that Mrs. Hudson’s love for gossip is only matched by what a dirty bird she can be. Louis’ face is completely flaming after that _wonderful_ conversation.

Not to mention the fact that Harry is still freaking sprawled on top of him, and doesn’t seem intent on moving anytime soon. He’s actually kind of pressing them closer together, face tucked into Louis neck. There might be some lip-to-neck contact, even.

At least Louis knows Harry’s really, truly happy to see him. Or at least a rather _large_ part of him is, if the evidence against his leg is anything to go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this finished yesterday but left it 'til today for edits. Happy 21st to Mr.Harry Edward Styles anyway, and many happy returns. Hope he had a nice time with his boy and Liam at his party. 
> 
> Can you tell I have a penchant for convoluted plots and filler? I'm talking about cabbages and boozy cherry pie even though they still technically haven't smooched yet. 
> 
> Additionally, I added the "feminization" tag cause Eleanor's got a dirty mouth. 
> 
> To elaborate on Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics for this story, the way I have it going is this: 
> 
> Alphas (male or female) can only impregnate (and female alphas only when in rut-they have pseudopenises).  
> Betas- equivalent to normal humans males/females  
> Omegas (male or female)- can only be impregnated (male omegas only during heats) 
> 
> In this world, the dynamics are free to date/marry anyone but Alpha/Omega and beta/beta is more traditional.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have a talk. A confession. A promise.

Suffice to say, Louis didn’t think his day would turn out like this, sprawled in the entryway of his building with a stupidly attractive ( _emphasis on the stupid_ ) alpha lying on top of him. Crushing him. Positively cuddling him. Not to say that he isn’t enjoying it, and Harry _definitely_ is, but Louis would like some answers, thanks very much.  
  
Louis grabs a handful of curls, ignoring Harry’s little whine of discomfort before saying, “What the hell were you getting at, Styles, sneaking up on me!” He gives Harry another tug for good measure. Honestly his curls are _insanely_ soft.  
  
If possible, Harry tries to bury his face even further into Louis neck, so much so that Louis can barely hear him when he mumbles, “I was gonna carry you over the threshold.” Louis can practically hear him pouting.  
  
And even though he can’t see him directly, Louis can also definitely feel Harry’s face getting hotter against his neck.  
  
“Harry. I don’t know if you’ve suffered some sort of episode in the past two weeks, but you and I aren’t married. In fact, the only committed relationship I’m in right now is between me and the pot noodles I’ve got waiting for me upstairs.”  
  
At those words, Harry’s pouty face instantly morphs into an utterly dopey smile. The dimples are threatening to overpower Louis’ sarcasm, which won’t do at all. “Yeah, but I was just trying to get some practice in. ‘Cause we’re definitely gonna get married, Lou.”  
  
Penchant for various not-to-be-named rom-coms aside, Louis isn’t about to get himself swept up in Harry’s madness. “My god Styles, what makes you think I would marry you? Or that I’d even want to get married in the first place!”  
  
Harry’s smiling even wider now, which is completely insufferable. “Well you told me so, Lou, our first night together.” He makes almost crushing Louis in his tiny bed sound so romantic.  
  
At Louis’ raised eyebrow, he shrugs shyly, “Well you didn’t _tell_ me exactly, but you were mumbling in your sleep about it.”  
  
“What you mean to say, _Harold_ , is that while _I_ was letting you stay in my flat out of the goodness of my heart, after you _snuck_ into my _bed_ , _you_ were watching me _sleep_?” His mum always told him to watch out for the quiet ones, but it turns out his luck’s just absolutely shit. Because no one told him to watch out for the one’s with dimples and green eyes and huge hands.  
  
Actually, Harry looks horrified as soon as the words leave Louis’ mouth. His eyes widen before he goes, “No, no, no Lou! I wasn’t doing it like, _that_. I just wanted to, kind of, take you all in? I wanted to remember how the moonlight fell on your face, how your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the way your nose crinkled when I accidentally bounced the bed…”  
  
Harry says it so, _so_ , earnestly. Like he could really have been so caught up in Louis.  
  
Honestly, Louis figures he has to get him inside and upstairs before he dies of either embarrassment or delight.  
  
Or both.  
  
Probably both.  
  
  


*

  
They end up on seated together on Louis’ tiny, slightly off-kilter loveseat (courtesy of the IKEA “As-Is” section). “Together” as in, Louis is currently sitting on Harry’s lap because the alpha has to go and be all gigantic and take up the entire sofa. Or at least that’s the story they’ll be sticking to if anyone asks.  
  
Nobody will of course, Louis is still half-convinced this is some sort of fever dream brought on by wishful-thinking and malnutrition.  
  
“So,” Louis says, as he tries to be serious and give Harry a good stare-down (even when the alpha is trying his hardest to give him a good cuddle, but Louis Tomlinson isn’t that easy, and he wants answers), “What brings you back to the middle-of-nowhere, _Harold_? You’re a bit late, aren’t’cha?”  
  
Honestly, Louis was really just trying to tease him a bit, it’s not like Harry and he were anywhere close to being anything after having known each other for less than twenty-four hours. But Harry seems to think Louis is in fact being serious, because he launches into a desperate frenzy of explanations.  
  
“No, Lou! I was gonna come back right after the party but then everything happened with Liam and Niall and Zayn and the video filming and the record and Holmes Chapel and Doncaster and the BBC and—,” Harry’s gasping, words coming out all in a rush, leaving him a bit red in the face.  
  
“Lou…,” Harry says, and he sounds utterly, completely desperate, “It was all Liam’s fault!”  
  
Liam, as in Liam Payne, as in “Big Payno” who he’d had the delightful phone conversation with. Liam Payne, one of Harry’s oldest and best friends, who was apparently some strange combination of nightlife DJ and physician, if the tabloids were to be believed (the links for which Eleanor had sent him after their little ‘heart-to-heart’, that Louis had only clicked under _extreme_ _duress_ ). Rags aside, Louis can believe that this is at least partly Liam’s fault, just based on their first (and only) conversation. But he’d also like to let Harry squirm a bit.  
  
So, all he does at this revelation is say, “How so?” making sure to give Harry the patented “Tomlinson Raised Eyebrow” that he knows makes people squirm.  
  
And with that, Harry’s torrent of explaining begins again, “Well you know Liam got a B on his geography GCSE but he’s absolutely fucking terrible with directions and he thinks Australia and Japan are right next to each other and he thought we were in fucking Holmes Chapel! But _Zayn_ , Zayn found you! He and the BBC found you! And so I came straight away and I wanted to surprise you because I thought you might like that and—“  
  
“Have you quite finished, Harold?” Louis is frankly a bit worried that Harry’s going to pass out from lack of air at this point, but he quickly stops to catch his breath at Louis’ question.  
  
Harry’s giving him a doe-eyed look of hope (and a little fear, which is just the way Louis’ likes it, to be perfectly honest), and Louis’ isn’t so, so cruel as to torture him by making him go on. Well, not _so_ cruel anyway.  
  
“Are you sure it wasn’t because you were having too much fun partying, Harry? I can’t think that famous musicians like you would have much interest in a little omega like me. Not when you could be dating other musicians, or models, or what have you?” Louis is trying to make it sound light-hearted, when he and Harry are still at the point where they can both back out. When Louis can still convince himself that he and Harry can’t possibly be anything, that they could both walk out of this and forget each other. He’s not so sure he’s completely successful, hearing the words leave his mouth.  
  
Harry’s smiling again at his words, his arms tightening around him, “You looked me up Lou? Is it because you missed me too? Did you see I was looking for you?”  
  
Louis wouldn’t admit to anything even under threat of being denied tea for the rest of his natural life, “No, I was just checking to see if there were any escaped lunatics in the area named ‘Harry Edward Styles.’”  
  
Instead of the laugh Louis’ was expecting, Harry’s giving him a serious look. Which, it hadn’t been his best joke but Louis’ wasn’t firing on all cylinders today, okay?  
  
Harry’s moved again so his face is pressed against Louis’ neck, “You know it’s all trash, right Lou? The things they say about me…the things they’ll say about you, it’s utter shit. It’s all make-believe or articles planted by my management for publicity.”  
  
Much as he hates to admit it, Louis remembers all the articles quite clearly. According to various upstanding publications such as _The Sun_ , _The Mirror_ , and last (but not least), the _Daily Mail_ , Harry has dated, gotten off with, proposed to, possibly impregnated, and various combinations thereof a myriad of players in the entertainment world. An American popstar, some reality television star-turned model, a presenter who was one of those “cougar”-types. The list went on and on. The most recent article Eleanor sent, along with the comment “Utterly fucking fake!” had declared that Harry was now fucking his entire pretty-boy alpha gang of friends, including the aforementioned Liam Payne.  
  
The thing is, Louis himself is obviously in the newspaper business. He knows more than most about things like rumors and the problem of making up headlines just to sell papers, even in his tiny village.  
  
Last summer there’d been a big to-do over a rumor that Mrs. Turner next door had used shop-bought pastry for her prize-winning fruit pie at the last village fête. Mrs. Hudson had been beside herself, and Louis had spent a good three days sorting out the mess and printing out announcements and apologies and clarifications. They’d published _four_ times that week instead of the usual two. Instead of the usual tea and biscuits on Sunday they’d all indulged in some of Mrs.Hudson’s “herbal soothers” to work out the stress. With all the windows tightly shut, of course. They were all pillars of the community, after all.  
  
Most of those articles wouldn’t have been run if they’d had truthful headlines such as “Lads Stumble Home After a Night Out” or “Two Friends Have Lunch and Walk Around Together—Faces Clearly Annoyed By Cameras.” Sensationalism sells, what the public wants is a built-up image of grandeur, never mind the truth.  
  
So Louis is completely sincere when he tells Harry, in no uncertain terms, “I believe you.”  
  
Harry still looks at him like he’s got his heart in his hands though, eyes big and adoring, when he asks, “Really?”  
  
Louis almost has to look away, his heart’s beating too quick, but he still says, “Yes. It doesn’t take much to know that they’ll write that shite just to sell a few more papers or get a few more clicks.”  
  
If possible, Harry grips him even tighter, like he’d be adrift without Louis’ to anchor him. “You’d be surprised, Lou. How many people believe what’s written about me and the lads. I started out with a lot more friends than I’ve been able to keep, you know.”  
  
And hearing that Louis kind of wants to keep him tucked in his arms forever. Stroke his curls until he falls asleep into the land of dreams, where Harry could sing without the celebrity. Make music without the media circus.  
  
Despite the fact that Harry’s revelations might have just cracked Louis’ heart in two he’s still smiling, dimpled and bright. “It doesn’t have to be that way anymore though. I don’t _need_ to do any of that crap anymore. I don’t _want_ to do any of that crap anymore. Not when I’ve got you now, Lou.”  
  
Louis wants to believe him, really. But it’s a strange feeling for him, maybe the first time Louis Tomlinson’s ever been someone’s priority. It’s why he asks, “Why?” instead of saying what he really feels.  
  
Harry’s looking at him, eyes soft, “Because, Lou, I fully intend to date you, to court you, introduce you to all my friends, my family, get a dog together, get a flat together, and everything in between until the day I get engaged to you, marry you, and have children with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I brought the cheese, let's have a cheese-fest.
> 
> We're moving at a snail's pace, 'cause I don't know anything about love. So I'll write about the media machine instead, I guess.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continued musings of Louis William Tomlinson on life, love, and family. Baby look what you've done to me.

What are you supposed to do when someone confesses his love for you, although not in so many words? When someone you’ve known for less than _a month_ tells you that he could conceivably spend the rest of his live by your side? Marriage, sex, kissing, everything. _The lot_.  
  
It’s be helpful if someone had taught Louis, because he’s just been sitting and staring at Harry for the past five minutes. You know, since Harry had basically bared his soul to him. His squishy, cuddly, love-you-darling, soul.  
  
Love isn’t unfamiliar to him, Louis knows a lot of people who’ve loved parts of him. His eyes, his bum, his ability to be almost too mean before pulling back and being utterly kind and lovely.  
  
But Harry sounds like he’s genuinely falling in love with _all of him_.  
  
And it’s just that Louis doesn’t know how to react to that, is the thing.  
  
Should he ‘Bella Swan’ it?  
  
_No_ , because that would be _mortifying_ , despite the fact that Harry has already admitted to _watching him sleep_. And Louis tends to both talk in his sleep _and_ sleepwalk, so for all he knows Harry might’ve actually spent more time corralling him back to bed than actually watching him sleep. Come to think of it, there’s been more than a few people who’ve mentioned Louis’ more-than-passing resemblance to Kristen Stewart. Although flattering, he doesn’t know really know what to make of that comparison himself. Regardless, there are more important things at hand!  
  
Well, how about a little ‘Anastasia Steele,’ then?  
  
Which would be even horrifying, come to think of it. Although Louis is sure Harry could match Christian Grey pound-for-pound, both with their fists— as Harry’s hands are quite frankly, _massive_ and without a doubt not as pushover-ey as their aforementioned owner’s deceptive dimples might indicate, _and_ their respective bank accounts, Harry just doesn’t look like the type who’d want to mentally and physically abuse Louis under the guise of loving him.  
  
Thank goodness for that.  
  
He does look like he’d be a serial baby-cuddler, though.  
  
_Thank goodness for that_. Louis has always maintained that if (alright, _when_ ) he has his very own pudgy babies to cuddle in the future, his partner had better be right by his side changing nappies. If his kid’s crying and Louis is making a fool of himself trying to make them smile there better be someone right next to him going hard with the funny faces, alright? Or to take over when Louis inevitably breaks down crying, someone who holds him close and reassures him with absolute conviction that Louis is a good mummy, the absolute _best_ mummy their baby could ever ask for.  
  
Fantasies about babies aside (and to be completely confidential, Louis has a lot of them), there’s still, _once again_ , the matter at hand.  
  
So maybe something a bit more classic, à la ‘Elizabeth Bennet’?  
  
Nope, that wouldn’t work _at all_. Harry’s already told him his intentions, so to speak, and Louis isn’t going to waste time denying that they’re basically on the same page, not when Harry’s been everything _but_ a twat. He’s been a complete peach, actually. Fuzzy and sweet. What matters is that Harry wants him, and Louis wants him right back, and the best thing about it is that there isn’t anyone or anything in the world to stand between them.  
  
Although he hopes in the future there’ll be more than a few curly-haired children standing between them while they have their family photographs taken. Maybe a dog or a cat at their feet.  
  
Suffice to say, he’s just going to have to do what he’s done everyday for the last nineteen years of his life.  
  
He’s gotta do it the ‘Tommo' way.  
  
Which means _kiss him, kiss him, kiss him_.

 

*

  
Harry’s lips are _so_ soft.

*

  
It’s just as easy to fall into each other after that.  
  
Louis is drowning in Harry. Everything—his scent, his voice, his touch. He’s helpless against him as the alpha attempts to kiss every bit of exposed skin he can reach. There’ll never be an end to it if the way he’s tugging at Louis’ jumper is any indication of what’s to come.  
  
Eyes, nose, lips. _Kiss, kiss, kiss_.  
  
His collarbones and neck are now host to a mess of love bites. Each one pulling successively louder whimpers from Louis’ bruised throat. Which only serve to spur Harry on, like every newly burst blood vessel is another personal triumph.  
  
Eyes on him, nose nuzzling into his neck, lips on his skin.  
  
Hands gripping his hips, so hard they just might bruise.  
  
And he’s thankful for them really, because Louis’ practically floating on air and he doesn’t think gravity will do the job anymore.

 

*

 

Of course, nothing _really_ happens. For one thing, although he’s on suppressants, Louis hasn’t been on birth control for the past year or so. Not since after graduation, when Eleanor left for London and Central St. Martins after one last hurrah. He’d been happy for one less pill to remember until today, when it now seems like an entirely idiotic decision.

  
He hasn’t even got any condoms in the flat, come to think of it. Which, might’ve been a sad indication of how pathetic the love-life of Louis William Tomlinson had become if he wasn’t currently in the lap of one Harry Edward Styles, being smothered by an excessive amount of kisses, held in place by a rather solid set of arms. 10/10, would _definitely_ concede to being enveloped by them again.  
  
Frankly, Louis wouldn’t have gotten the right size anyway. Not at his tiny neighborhood chemist anyway. For all he knows, Harry might have to special-order condoms for himself.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m being held captive on my own couch, the injustice!” His struggling and squirming completely facetious, as if he’s not utterly loving the entire situation. Harry certainly is, anyway.  
  
“More like I’m saving your precious bum from being chafed to all hell on this devil sofa,” Harry snarks, smiling all the same.  
  
IKEA: _cheap, cheerful, and chafing_.  
  
Louis snakes his arms around Harry’s neck again, “A real saint you are, yeah?”  
  
“Got the Vatican on speed-dial and everything.”

 

*

 

  
It’s just as easy to agree to go to London after _that_. Harry’s big, pleading eyes have him agreeing without a second thought once he proposes the idea.  
  
Louis calls off work for the first time since he got the job, still intending to take his laptop with him and field all work-related calls on his mobile. Mrs. Hudson sounds incredibly pleased to grant him time-off when he asks for it. Of course he doesn’t even have to really make the call, given her “meeting” with Harry earlier, she’d probably already made up a hundred different relationship scenarios where Louis is whisked off to happily-ever-after. God knows she’s already had about ninety ready even before Harry had come into the picture.  
  
Actually, it seems Mrs. Hudson literally has a “Louis’ finally got a sweetheart” phone-tree at the ready.  
  
Which they soon find out once they descend the stairs, his bags slung over both of Harry’s broad shoulders, hand clasped tightly in his. They’re surrounded in no time flat.  
  
He doesn’t think it could be much worse than letting everyone get a good look at Harry, let them fawn over how handsome he is, how tall, _those curls_ , and so on and so forth (and Louis might preen a tiny, _teensy-weensy_ bit at that, because he’s not _blind_ y’know), and maybe field a few cheeky comments about the _gorgeous_ children they’d have together.  
  
But of course it does get worse, because what’s even more embarrassing than listening to Mr. Pettigrew _gush_ over Harry’s curls is that it becomes clear to Louis that the majority (okay, a hundred percent) of Louis’ coworkers are more caught up on pop culture than Louis himself, fifty-year age difference be damned. Because Harry Styles isn’t just “Louis’ new boyfriend” for them to interrogate, he’s “I just _loved_ your last album, would you sign it for me, please?” and “I’ve just heard you’re going to be taking part in Red Nose Day again this year, good lad!”  
  
It’s how Louis ends up in the parlor with everyone, perched on the edge of a settee, watching as Harry treats an enraptured audience of over-seventies to a live, acapella performance of one of his earliest hit singles, “Midnight Memories.”  
  
Accompanied by a dose of over-exaggerated gyrating that has Louis willing the ground to swallow him up already. Or at least give him the chance to go back in time and choose trackies instead of the now uncomfotably skintight jeans he has on now. They wouldn’t have gone with the roll-neck jumper he’d changed into to cover up Harry’s handiwork, but in hindsight Louis would’ve made the sacrifice to save himself the discomfort.  
  
It’s when Harry steps toward him, hand outstretched, the lyrics falling from his lips like sin, “ _5 foot something with the skinny jeans, don’t look back baby follow me_ ,” that has Louis blushing like an overripe tomato but the rest of the room almost screaming bloody murder for more. Harry for his part looks to be enjoying himself immensely, ending the song with a flourish that has some members of his tiny audience ( _not_ Louis, _thanks very much_ ) visibly fanning themselves.  
  
Afterwards, autographs are doled out all around, some ostensibly for the "grandchildren", and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t let him go until he agrees to give the paper the exclusive scoop on their relationship, when the cat is inevitably let out of the bag. She’ll probably let Mrs. Thurston write the damn article too, and Louis knows all about Mrs. Thurston’s collection of harlequin romance novels, ok? The article will be all talk of Louis being “helpless to resist” Harry’s “fathomless green eyes” and “honeyed voice.”  
  
Which is all true but his mum read’s their paper, alright?!

 

*

 

Harry’s already outside putting the bags in the boot of his car, but Mrs. Hudson catches Louis the second before he’s out the door, giving him a _highly unnecessary_ pat on the bottom before she tells him to “Have fun dear, go make some of your own midnight memories!”  
  
The door shuts behind him, and Louis eyes are immediately drawn to Harry waving to him by the car, smile wide and dimples out in full-force.

Come to think of it, Louis doesn't think Harry's stopped smiling since he arrived. Louis probably hasn't either, funny that.  
  
There’s a February chill in the air, but Louis has never felt warmer.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do know that I read each and every review I've gotten, even if I never reply (what can I say, I'm awkward as fuck), and appreciate all the lovely kudos.
> 
> On a separate note, OT5 is ride or ride. That is all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Car rides can be heaven, car rides can be hell. A little bit of Louis childhood in the beginning, and Louis' future at the end.

As a child, Louis had been, to be quite honest, a complete and utter hellion. In school, he’d always been the class-clown, the jokester, taking the piss out of the teachers left and right.  
  
A right terror he’d been, so much so that his mum hadn’t even been a little surprised when she’d eventually been called in one day for a meeting, after the head teacher had decided that exclusion was simply not working. She hadn’t been surprised the many, many times after that, either.  
  
And so, Louis had raised hell from ages five to thirteen, reveling in the raucous laughter of his classmates, alpha, beta, and omega alike. Friends were friends. It hadn’t mattered then, who’d be having the babies or making the babies or growing the babies, or really who even knew where babies came from? Who had cared? _From the cabbages in the garden though, obviously. His mummy had told him so._  
  
He hadn’t had any reason to think, going into year nine, that anything would change. A rather naïve mindset, in hindsight.  
  
In his defense, there had been far more inconsequential things at hand. Like Hannah Walker’s always-amazing birthday party, or the upcoming auditions for the school play, or even just what particular monstrosity the school canteen would to try to pass-off as food for the day.  
  
He hadn’t spared a thought for the possibility that anything could change during those halcyon days, too busy dreaming about the _incredible_ sweets table Mrs. Walker always made up. Fairy cakes and party rings and gummies as far as the eye could see. Jesus couldn’t have done it better with his fishes, because that table was endless.  
  
And there were other, _even more_ completely unimportant things to consider as well. Sports day was coming up, for one. He always looked forward to absolutely _destroying_ the competition with the rest of his classmates relegated to the designated “omega” team. Because what they may have lacked in brute strength they always made up for in sheer number and innate swarming ability.  
  
Of course, his happy days had come to a crashing end just one day after Louis’ latest run-in with his most-hated geography teacher (an _astonishingly_ small-minded alpha in their surprisingly progressive school, whose idea of encouraging his omega students amounted to singling them out and telling them to “work hard so that they might in the future have fine, strapping alphas like your fellow classmates”) for some reason or another lost to time immemorial.  
  
What did matter was that Louis had gotten into trouble _again_ , and his mother had been called in _again_ , and then they were sitting in front of the headteacher, _again_.  
  
At the time, Louis hadn’t had any reason to assume it wouldn’t have gone just like every other meeting. The headteacher, a beta whose perpetually-balding head was in stark contrast to his oddly-bushy handlebar mustache, would lay out Louis’ thousand faults for his mother to apologize over, extract a promise form Louis to do better, _please_ , and they would all go on their merry way knowing nothing had or would change. _Lather, rinse, and repeat._  
  
Except, except, _except_ , it hadn’t gone that way _at all_. Because he’d sat down with his lovely mother, and instead of the same, tired-old speech that Louis assumed the man had been giving and would be giving for the rest of his days, what had come out of his damned mouth was, “Some members of the faculty have expressed _concerns_ that Louis’ acting-out may be a cry for attention, that he may be having some trouble controlling certain _tendencies_ now that he’s at _this_ age, as I’m sure you understand. They’ve suggested that perhaps Louis would like to _reconsider_ his participation in certain activities, until he’s gotten control over his behavior. I know a number of his classmates have already decided to sit-out our upcoming sports day, if he’s worried about being the only one not taking part.”  
  
_Which_ had been a very nice way of saying “We think your omega son is getting close to becoming an _omega_ and would you please sign this little slip of paper preventing him from participating in the big, bad, scary sports because he might go and scrape his knee on purpose and cry and every alpha student in the vicinity might go crazy rushing to his side?”  
  
Which had been the “nice” way of saying, “We think your son is acting out because his _cunt_ is beginning to ask for attention, _never you mind that he’s been acting the same way since day one of his entry into this school_ , and we’d like _you_ , his mother, to please teach him how to control himself. ‘lest he end up like _you_ , his mother, Ms. Twice-Divorced Omega with Five Young Children.”  
  
As if everything about Louis, from his head down to his toes, among all his squishy innards and the billions upon billions of neurons in his brain, could all be boiled down to omega.  
  
As if every single action, every single friend he’d ever made, which, _yes_ , many of them _were_ alphas, all culminated in the fact that one day, Louis would be an omega, and he’d want his pick of the litter with alphas. There couldn’t be any other reason, after all, for him to be friends with so many alphas, wasn’t that so? _Maybe if they’d been living in the nineteenth century it would’ve been so._  
  
And the thing was, Louis _had_ had his own agenda, although it’d not been nearly so nefarious. He had been rather young, after all—not quite at the level of world-domination level… yet.  
  
It’d just been important to him to establish himself as Louis first and foremost, before everyone grew up and things like alpha, and beta, and omega actually started to mean something. Before some of his classmates got _bigger_ , or _relatively_ bigger in the case of betas, or some, like Louis, stayed noticeably small.  
  
If he didn’t, then he’d just known they’d all be shuffled together, _the omegas_ , and he wouldn’t be invited to play footie anymore, or red rover, or rugby (well, alright, not being able to play rugby anymore was _a bit_ inevitable—Louis wasn’t delusional, and only little kiddies still played red rover), or he’d be asked if he’d _like_ to sit-out sports day. And he just wasn’t having it, alright?!  
  
But it seemed all his fears had come true that day, when he’d had to sit there and listen to the absolute load of _horseshit_ directed at him and his mother.  
  
Still, it’d been afterwards, sitting side-by-side on a bench in the main school hallway, that Louis had felt like the absolute worst. Like the most terrible son ever, ever, ever for his outstanding mum who worked so hard and always went without so he could have those new red trousers he so desperately wanted— “Mummy, _please_ ,” or so the girls could have new dresses for Easter, or a myriad of other things that always seemed more important than they ever really were in the end. It was a testament to the fact that their mother gave them everything they ever wanted, positively spoiled them, that five young children could piss-away his mother’s quite-comfortable salary.  
  
And what Louis did was make his mother take time-off work to come in and let his idiotic, pushover headteacher (because those words _certainly_ hadn’t come from the man himself, he was far too much a believer in alpha-beta-omega equality) living in the Dark Ages with actual shit-for-brains act as a mouthpiece for others to spout absolute vitriol at her.  
  
He’d had his head down, too ashamed to even look his own mother in the eye, instead miserably focusing on the swing, swing of his legs, zeroing-in on the scuff marks all over the worn linoleum tile.  
  
A hand on his head had startled him mid-contemplation (he’d been trying to work out the logistics of running away to Timbuktu—relatively unfeasible, his piggy bank was almost empty after buying Hannah’s birthday present), and he’d finally raised his eyes to meet his mum’s.  
  
He’d gotten a smile he honestly didn’t deserve, and the kind of unconditional understanding that Louis has always associated with his mum, when she said, “I think, Boobear, that I might ring Hannah’s mum.”  
  
Hannah’s mum. Hannah’s mum, Mrs. Walker. Who was the mother of Hannah, a very good friend of Louis’, and a fellow omega. Hannah’s mum, Mrs. Walker, who was the head of the PTA. Who bristled at the mere implication that alphas, betas, and omegas weren’t on even ground in anything, least of all sports. Who also took care to know, and make note of, every little bit of gossip floating around the school like dandelion fluff in the wind.  
  
Hannah’s mum, who it turned out would not only assure his own that every omega in the year, save _one_ , would be participating in sports day, but also inform her that “sitting-out” was not quite the same as “Poor India Fitzgerald has mono and won’t be back for the next month or so, the poor dear. She seemed absolutely crushed to miss the competition.”  
  
It turned out that, lucky for Louis, he wasn’t the only omega who’d thought the same way. In fact, most of the omegas in his year weren’t exactly keen on the idea of going home with a shit ribbon thanking them for their “participation,” or acting as glorified water-carriers, or _keeping score_ for goodness’ sake!  
  
It’s quite funny sometimes when he thinks back on it; that hellish month and a half when Louis’ mum and a gaggle of other parents decided that _under no circumstances whatsoever_ were their children going to go home without the gigantic, gold-painted plastic trophy allocated to the first-place winners of sports day.  
  
She’d literally trained him up, with early-morning runs on the weekends and everything. Of course he’d been joined by a handful of his classmates, whining and whimpering as they were urged onward to future victory. And the one time Louis had protested, pleading to his mum that their win was already guaranteed, he’d been reminded that not only were they already down one crucial teammate (India had objectively been the best sprinter in their year—she’d been a bit obsessed with ‘Atalanta’ from their Greek mythology unit in English), but also that a few of the alphas in their year were already going through their first growth spurts. Bigger, taller, and stronger, it’d take quite a few more of them swarming to take down just one.  
  
After that Louis had complained no more, not _out loud_ anyway, dutifully following the prescribed regimen of jogging, push-ups, Wii-boxing, and yoga devised by one of the other parents, who’d apparently been a physio or summat. He’d been “in it to win it,” even if that meant he had to drink dreadful spinach smoothies and had dreamt fitfully of chips for a week straight. _Of course, that’d only been because his mum hadn’t had the time to do the grocery run that week, and the school canteen always went on a crazy “healthy-eating” kick in the run-up to sports day._  
  
It’d all worked out in the end for the better, though. They’d gotten on that field and _dominated_ the competition from the start, winning almost every game. Capture-the-flag had been child’s play. The sprints as well. If Louis had been quick before, then after a month of torture he may well have been The Flash incarnate.  
  
They’d lost the tug-of-war of course, not that any one had been surprised. Their numbers hadn’t been a match for the sheer, inherit strength of alphas. Especially when half the alphas in their year really were shooting up like weeds. But they’d put up a good showing, and lasted a good few minutes before their opponents tired of toying with them and practically swung them all across the marked line.  
  
Humiliating though that may have been, once the points were tallied nothing had mattered once that beautiful, cheap-plastic, gaudy-gold, _absolutely beautiful_ trophy has been presented to them. Triumph had been sweet.  
  
But nothing had been sweeter than eating his weight in iced gems out the very same trophy at Hannah’s birthday (Mrs. Walker had been a true visionary) at the weekend. Not when he’d been surrounded by all his yearmates, without any more talk of alpha, beta, or omega anything.  There’d been more worry about who’d hogged an entire pizza ( _Stan_ , the _shit_ ), or who’d guzzled the last of the ribena (Eleanor, _even though_ she always swore up and down that she only drank sparkling water, even when her lips were _completely_ purple).  
  
Good food, good company, good times.  
  
And every year after that, when Louis went over to Hannah’s for more customary afternoon birthday cake and ice cream, they would all sit in her mum’s fancy parlor and look at their glorious trophy in it’s place-of-pride on the mantle piece. Remembering their victory always tasted even sweeter than either the cake or the ice cream. And even nearly as sweet as the cake and ice cream mixed together in a glorious, bowl-licking mess.  
  
Of course, by the time they were in sixth-form Hannah’s birthdays were less cake and ice cream and more cheap cider and schnapps snuck out the liquor cabinet of every house in a ten-kilometer radius. And Mrs. Walker spent less time hovering around making sure everybody had enough sweets than taking Mr. Walker out for dinner and letting them have the run of the house.  
  
Nevertheless their beloved trophy was still a constant, mostly because it made a rather lovely and convenient punch bowl. More than one person had been dared to drink the entire contents of that trophy in one-go, only to end up vomiting in Mr. Walker’s prized snowball bushes.  
  
Beautiful, precious memories.                           
  
And in all the time in between, there was never, ever, ever, _ever_ a time again when Louis had been asked to sit out _anything_ , not because he was an omega anyway. There were certain inevitabilities of course—he did stop playing rugby rather early-on, but only because he was a tiny, squishable thing (and really, it was mostly at the behest of his mum). And anyway, Eleanor and Luke had quit as well, so they’d made the most of it sitting in the stands after school and commending the others on their continued dedication to the sport with respectfully offered two-fingered salutes.  
  
Happy days all around.  
  
Louis Tomlinson would never be a wilting flower, and omegas would _fook you up_.  


*

  
Which is why this car ride doesn’t make any sense. Because what was happening right this moment, Louis can’t even begin to wrap his head around.  
  
For quite possibly the first time in his life, Louis William Tomlinson can’t think of a _single thing_ to say.  
  
It’s completely quiet in the car, a nice kind of quiet, but still, he’s getting a bit nervy. Maybe Harry thinks so too, otherwise hopefully he’s too busy paying attention to the road to notice that Louis hasn’t said more than a few words since they’d pulled onto the A1. If he’s lucky, maybe he won’t even notice for the next three hours.  
  
Because Louis is trapped in mute-limbo, there are neither words nor frogs to be caught in his throat. He honestly just doesn’t have anything to say.  
  
If he’d been with his mates, Louis would think it funny. Because of course Louis has never been the quiet-type, but during car trips he’s always been ten-times worse.  
  
In a tiny, moving, from-which-nobody-can-escape-his-annoying-antics vehicle, Louis is always the one shouting out unnecessary (and for the most part, wrong) directions, making a mess all over the seats eating crisps, trying to commandeer the radio (even from the backseat, especially from the backseat), and it always has to be jokes, jokes, jokes until Louis passes out (on godawful long car rides) or they reach their destination (usually Manchester, to pickle their livers some more), much to everyone’s relief.  
  
To reiterate—what _the fuck_ was happening right now.  
  
Louis could snark from one end of Doncaster to the other, could skip up all the steps to his flat, snarking all the way. Could snark all the way to Manchester, pop two aspirin with some water, and snark all the way back to ease his pounding head.  
  
But all those places are his places, his home, with his friends, and London’s not even a bit alike. London’s not even a bit his. Even if it has his Harry, and Harry’s friends, and all sorts of wonderful things Harry’s promised to show him. Because Harry’d been so, so sure Louis would love London and have so, so much fun, and Louis really, really doesn’t want to disappoint him.  
  
Honestly, nothing can possibly be as bad as that long silence at the end of _The Graduate_. Anything but that, Louis could live with. He just doesn’t want them to be sitting in the car, all the way in London, with neither of them having anything in common, and nothing to show for it after some big, explosive love declaration. To realize that they don’t really know each at all in the end, and that it’s never, ever, ever going to work. How horrifying would that be?  
  
So maybe he can’t help but be a bit nervous.  


*

  
Harry’s car is all plush seats and shiny interiors, and even without knowing much about cars Louis can tell it’s expensive. _All_ the windows are blacked out, even the windshield, all important-like. The heat’s been turned up quite a bit, _he doubts Harry has to worry about anything like the cost of petrol_ , and for anyone else except Louis that might’ve been enough, but he’s _still_ chilly, even in his fairly-thick winter jacket.  
  
Honestly he wishes he’d thought to layer on another sweatshirt, god knows he’s got enough of them. Louis has appropriated enough jumpers from all of his friends to last a life time, and this must be his comeuppance. To sit and be cold having forgotten even a single one.  
  
Of course, it’s not exactly “stealing” if they’d gone to better use with him. After all, Luke and Nizam, and Calvin had all had late growth spurts ( _alphas_ , honestly), so he doubted anything they’d worn in college would fit them now, much less any ratty, worn-soft, sweaters. Stan had only gotten a little taller, but his shoulders had gotten quite broad, not to mention his new tummy. And Oli knew better than to ask for his things back.  
  
As for Eleanor, well she didn’t deign to wear anything but leather jackets and trenches these winter days, _and Louis didn’t think those looked even a bit warm at all_ , so she’d given Louis free reign over her things before she’d left for London.  
  
Otherwise, she might’ve killed him.  
  
It’d been a bit of a running joke among his friends, actually. That if Louis was cold he would put on ten sweaters before he’d ever consider just putting on a pair of socks. He just _hates_ socks, alright?  
  
Most everyone’s gone now, though. Off to Manchester or down to London, off to the ends of the world for adventure and having left poor Louis all by his lonesome.  
  
The jokes on them, innit? Adventure had come and found Louis, and he was bright-eyed and tall and inexplicably curly.  
  
Anyway, the point is, Louis is cold. And normally while he’d be kicking up a fuss, the heat’s already on the highest setting in the car, he’s checked twice-over.  
  
It’s warm enough that Harry’s shed his own sweatshirt and thrown it into the backseat, stripped down to a rather lurid, flamingo-patterned, short-sleeved button-up. Louis would have stared longer at it (the shirt, of course, not Harry’s biceps), if he wasn’t so busy trying to keep himself from shivering. He doesn’t want Harry to notice, doesn’t want him to think Louis is so dimwitted he couldn’t even remember to put on a bloody sweater.  
  
Of course, because Louis is going to be paying back the universe for years to come after it did _one_ good thing for him (well, Harry is a very good thing, so he supposes it’s fair enough), Harry does in fact notice. He takes his eyes off the road for a split second and it just has to be the one moment Louis does a full-body shiver.  
  
It makes Louis squirm on the inside, not even from the cold this time, when Harry smiles at him so easily and says, “Cold, baby?”  
  
Baby, baby, _baby_. He wishes he was just imagining the blood rushing to his face, although Harry only seems to smile wider, presumably when he sees Louis’ pink cheeks.  
  
“‘Can have my sweatshirt if you like, ‘threw it in the back somewhere,” he’s got both eyes on the road again, all responsible-like. And even if Louis is nervous he can tell now that Harry is as well. He’s trying his hardest to show Louis he’s reliable, capable of being a protector. Keeps both hands on the wheel even if one’s obviously itching to fiddle with the radio.  
  
He says it so casually, but Louis knows enough about alphas to understand that what Harry means is that he’d really, _really_ like for Louis to put on his sweatshirt.  
  
Eleanor’d been the same way, after a fashion, even after they’d agreed casual, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies was as much as they could be. Although a jumper is a bit different than “Louis you’d look gorgeous in my knickers, _come on_.”  
  
Which, Louis much preferred to buy his own knickers, thanks. El’d always been itching to have him wear those terrible, scratchy lace ones when Louis was much more inclined towards soft, comfy cotton.  
  
It’s lucky that the sweatshirt’s close enough for Louis to _just_ grip it with his fingertips, leaning forward as much as he can while still wearing his seatbelt.  
  
Louis pulls the sash of his seatbelt to the side, shrugging off his jacket for the moment. Takes a moment to get a good look at the pullover before he shrugs it on, examining it. It’s got a funny little flower in the center, with a circlet of letters around, “‘J’ai du vague à l’âme,” he garbles out, it’s something that sounds recognizably French even with Louis mangling it.  
  
Harry repeats “J’ai du vague à l’âme,” with a much better approximation of a French accent, giggling at him like Louis’ the funniest thing. He is quite funny, thanks, but he can’t let that insult to his person stand.  
  
“Excuse me, I’ll have you know I am _one-sixteenth_ Belgian, which means my accent is perfect and whatever just came out of your mouth is the real travesty. But you can kindly make it up to me by telling me what on earth that even means.” It’s not true of course. Harry’s accent only confirms that he is one smooth bastard. And Louis’ bit of Belgian isn’t even from the French-speaking side, not that Harry has to know that.  
  
“’t means ‘My soul is in the waves,’” Harry tells him, “Sort of, anyway, ‘s hard to explain.”  
  
“I’d say so, ‘think it makes even less sense in English, if I’m being honest,” Louis has half a mind to take off the sweatshirt and just live with being cold, “If my soul was in the waves right now I’d be half-frozen to death, as a matter of fact.”  
  
No sane person would be at the beach in this weather. Lottie’s been getting by with fake-tan and moaning about how all her friends have gone on holiday without her.  
  
Harry clearly enjoys Louis sassing him, by the way his eyes crinkle up. “’s supposed to mean, like, ‘I feel melancholy,’ but in a very roundabout way, I think.”  
  
He’s more relaxed now, Louis can tell, just a little bit, if only because he’s the same. The vice grip on the wheel has loosened, with just his right hand to do the job now. His left’s between them, just done with switching between radio stations.  
  
“So do you? Feel, um, melancholy?” Louis asks, reaching out to hook his right pinky around Harry’s left.  
  
There’s an answering squeeze, “Not at all.”  


*

  
It’s much easier to talk after that. They chat about the most inane things and yet Louis feels like every second is important. He wants to learn all about Harry, and Harry must feel same.  
  
Otherwise, Louis is sure, he wouldn’t have listened to Louis gush about the Rovers for a full twenty minutes. He’d happily listened to Louis ramble on about hugging the Donny Dog with no complaints.  
  
Of course, “all about Harry” includes the fact that for the better part of his teenage years (apparently, the most important part), Harry “used to be a baker.”  
  
Apparently, there are merits of fresh yeast versus dried yeast. _Apparently_ , fresh yeast is prone to spoiling and only practical for big bakeries, while dry yeast is the most convenient for the home baker.  
  
“Although I’ve found that a sourdough starter is actually far superior in terms of depth of flavor, do you know why?”  
  
To be honest, he’s caught off-guard by the question. He’d been a bit busy estimating how long before Harry might kiss him again—quite long, possibly _hours_ if Louis has guessed right and Harry’s actually “Mr. Responsible” on the roads even when he's not trying to impress.  
  
Something about bread?  
  
Luckily, the question seems to be entirely rhetorical. Or, Harry had decided that Louis’ cow-eyes were the equivalent of “Oh please, do go on, enquiring minds want to know.” _This enquiring mind wants to know whether your lips are as soft as he remembers._  
  
“Because, with a sourdough starter, you’ll have spent all this time feeding it. This great big beast, with millions upon billions of yeast cells, for days, and months, and years, if you’re dedicated enough. And the longer you’ve nurtured it, the more the bread you make with it tastes of home, I think. I wouldn’t make a fry-up with anything but my own bread if I could help it, it just wouldn’t taste the same.”  
  
Which _fuck_ , is there anything Louis loves more than a proper fry-up for breakfast?  
  
“Sounds a whole lot better than pot noodle for breakfast, if you ask me.” Louis isn’t even trying to be self-deprecating. It’s just that no one on the face of the Earth would pick pot noodles over scrumptiously-fried sausages, and eggs, and potatoes, and black pudding, and _beans_ , and all those other gorgeous things that make Louis positively salivate just to think of them. With the added benefit that they’re all a lot better partner with tea. Washing down soup with tea just isn't _quite_ the same.  
  
Harry laughs, quick and loud, and the shock on his face makes Louis think it maybe slipped out. Now they're both blushing.  
  
“Well I for one think that your pot noodles were delicious. Anything made by someone I love tastes out of this world, you know. Even my sister’s rock cakes, which, anyone who’s ever seen Gemma in the kitchen knows, honestly taste like spiced cement with fruits in.”  
  
_He just casually drops the word “love” like that’s what they’ve always been and will be forever._  
  
All this talk of baking somehow segues into Harry’s highly-anticipated appearance for Red Nose Day next month. “Honestly, I wanted to do Bake-Off, but they asked me to sing instead, and all the places had been snapped up. I wouldn’t have even minded just doing the washing-up, either. But you know, my friend Alexa’s doing it, ‘been practicing all month, in fact. I’ve been trying to help her but I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to swallow down her, erm, cakes. I mean, they’re always awfully pretty, ‘cause she’s such a great artist, but even Niall can’t swallow them, and he’ll eat almost anything you know—”  
  
“Oh, Alexa’s an artist? Like a painter or summat?”  
  
Harry’s talking a mile a minute, like he couldn’t be happier that Louis is interested in hearing him talk about his friends and his life and just explain all these things, “Oh, um, no, well, she could be a painter if she wanted, but she’s more like, a designer. Alexa Chung, y’know?”  
  
He doesn’t know actually, although Eleanor certainly will. Maybe Louis should send text her an SOS? No, no, _no_ , he honestly couldn’t. She’d just be so _smug_ about Harry.  
  
“She designed the jumper you’re wearing, actually,” Harry says, gesturing to the sweatshirt that Louis has already resolved to squirrel away as his own. It’s awfully snuggly, he's absolutely swamped in it, and there’s the the added bonus of it smelling entirely of Harry.  
  
“Zayn paints though. He’s like a proper artist at gallery openings and his own shows and everything. His canvases are always _sick_.”  
  
Louis has been to an art show before, even participated as a matter of fact. In primary he’d finger-painted a rather amazing picture of his old dog Ted for his class exhibition, to rave reviews. He’d even made his first commission after his granddad had bought it for the price of one Happy Meal.  
  
Somehow he doubts Ms. Honey’s classroom and this “Saatchi Gallery” Harry’s describing are on the same level.  
  
But Zayn’s basically the whole reason Harry has found his way back to Louis, and just based on that Louis has a feeling he’s going to like Zayn.  
  
And then there’s the rest of the crew who’d gone on the camping lark. Like silly mother-hen Liam who works in A &E and can never seem to not act like a physician with “the biggest heart found in any and all earthly beings.”  
  
“Y’know, we all went out fishing in the middle of nowhere once, Liam’s real big on fishing y’see, so we’re chilling by the ocean and a hook gets caught in my finger on accident. Total accident, not a big deal, but you should’ve seen Liam. He was going on about blood poisoning and tetanus shots and all these proper doctor-y things. And then he was so sorry that he didn’t have the kind of plasters I wanted in his first-aid kit. And then—”  
  
“Wait, there are different kinds of plasters?” A rather rough-and-tumble childhood has made Louis very familiar with plasters, but he’s never used any other than the kind that peeled off and shriveled to disgusting little bits as soon as even a drop of water touched them. Honestly he’d never really been the type for plasters, not once he figured out that he was the type to skin his knees again just as soon as they’d healed up.  
  
Harry laughs, smiling like he’s about to let Louis in on a big secret, “Well, he only had the spray kind for convenience, ‘cause he’s proper responsible like that, and I _really_ wanted the ones with cartoons on. Those are the _only_ type that really work on boo-boos, y’see.”  
  
“Boo-boos, huh?” _What a weenie._  
  
Harry looks at him, his expression almost comically affronted, “Of course! The scourge of the Earth and all mankind. The omnipresent species that is indigenous to every continent where humans are present, scientific name Boo boos, commonly known as ‘the ouchies.’ Of which the only known cure is smooches, and for which plasters act as palliative care. Liam told me so, he learned all about ‘em in medical school.”  
  
He nods at Louis, as if he’s really speaking in all seriousness, “Of course, if the universe had instead seen fit for us to meet before then, instead of now, you would’ve been there as well, and you could’ve just cured me with your smooches, and I wouldn’t have needed a plaster at all.”  
  
Harry states it like it’s fact, like he’s absolutely certain “us” would’ve happened no matter what, like there’re no doubts in his mind whatsoever.  
  
“What makes you think I would’ve kissed your gross fish-hand, eh?” _Of course_ Louis would’ve kissed Harry’s bloody fish-hand, he’d still want to kiss Harry even if the man turned into a bloody fish himself. It’d even be romantic in a way. Princesses kissed frogs all the time, didn’t they? A fish wouldn’t be so different.  
  
“Heyyyyy, the hook was pre-fish! And the cure is much more effective when administered to the lips and/or general face-area actually.” Louis has the distinct feeling that this is the smoothest Harry will ever be, that this is peak-flirting for Harry Edward Styles.  
  
All things considered, it’s not bad.  
  
“What about if the cure is administered months after the initial injury? How effective is it then?”  
  
Harry’s smile, if possible, gets even cheekier, “Still counts.” Doesn’t even miss a beat.  
  
Well, Harry’s earned himself a kiss. On the cheek of course, eyes on the road and all that.  
  
In between Harry swearing up and down that he feels much better (apparently, the phantom pains in his poor finger have all but disappeared) Louis reminds him that his story had a point—something about fishing?  
  
“Oh, right! Anyway, so after we got back to London I didn’t see him for like a week after, forgot all about my finger, until I invited all the boys around for the night. And you know what Liam shows up with?”  
  
“Beer?” Rhetorical? Probably. But Louis has the habit of answering any and all questions posed to him, something he picked up after never having answered any questions at all in school. Not correctly, anyway.  
  
Harry huffs out a laugh, “Well, no, usually Niall’s in charge of drinks. He’s quite good at mixing up some tasty stuff that’ll get you absolutely smashed if you’re not careful, y’know?”  
  
Louis doesn’t know, actually, but it sounds like a good time nonetheless. Shitfaced alphas stumbling around like overgrown puppies learning to walk, not an uncommon sight in the life of Louis Tomlinson. Although Eleanor always did pretty well, even in heels, the same couldn’t be said for his other alpha mates. There’d been a few times when Stan or Calvin, _never Luke_ ,had almost pitched themselves over a bridge and into a river, although Louis had been confident after the first ten times that they would’ve been able to doggy-paddle themselves out.  
  
“Anyway, while we were waiting for Niall to show up with the good stuff, and Zayn to get the takeaway, Liam is like ‘Here, mate. Sorry again about your finger, hope this makes up for it,’ and he hands me this giant box of plasters, totally casual-like.”  
  
Mobile-conversation notwithstanding, Liam honestly sounds like a good lad, so he tells Harry as much. Just the kind of guy who’d offer to piggy-back you up an entire flight of stairs if you told him you’d stubbed your toe and it was “just a bit sore.”  
  
“So what’d you do with ‘em, then? Stick ‘em all over your face or summat?” It’s what Louis would’ve done, anyway. That, or the twins would’ve wheedled them out of him so they could play teddy bear hospital.  
  
“‘course not, Lou! Those are proper medical things, they need to be used responsibly! Like antibiotics and…other medicine-y things, they won’t be as effective if you just use them all willy-nilly-like. The ouchies will get resistant! But I’ve still got a ton of them, actually might need to use a few when we get home.”  
  
“Oh, for what, Mr. Responsible-User-of-‘Medicine-y-Things?”  
  
“Well I might’ve gotten a few scrapes on my back after you flipped me all cool and proper ninja-like.”  
  
Yes, it had been very cool and proper ninja-like, hadn’t it? He’d have to give Ayesha a call later and thank her.  
  
“Niall loves stuff like that, y’know. He’d probably treat you to a pint if you’d flipped him like that. Probably shake your hand after as well.”  
  
Never mind Liam, Niall is at the top of his list of Harry’s friends he wants to meet. Right after Zayn, of course, who Louis is planning on treating to a pint or twenty.  
  
“Yeah, Niall’s a real top lad, just the hardest-working guy I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Yeah?” Harry eyes get so bright and happy when he’s waxing-poetic about his amazing friends. Like, it’s so, _so_ obvious that he loves them, it’s utterly heartwarming.  
  
“Yeah. Like, rain, sleet, or shine, Niall’s always in the studio before I am. It’s never mattered to him if he’s hungover, got food poisoning, or what-have-you, the man’s always ready and raring to go whenever I need him. I don’t know what I did to deserve him, because I don’t think my career would be half where it is if I didn’t have Niall.”  
  
The thing is, not only does Harry sound like he has great friends, but what kind of person is Harry Styles to have ‘em? Also pretty great, is what Louis is thinking.  
  
“Honestly Harry, you can’t believe that. If your mates are as great as you’re sayin’, and I’m sure they are, then you must be so, so, _genuinely_ good for you all to have stuck together for so long.”  
  
If he’s not mistaken, Harry actually looks kind of…bashful. Obviously he can’t be embarrassed for the compliments, not in his line of work. So maybe…his cheeks are so red because they’re coming from Louis? It’s a nice thought, that he can provoke all sorts of reactions like this from Harry, all the good sorts. Licorice allsorts, sweet as can be.  
  
“Yeah…yeah! Like, I just feel like I need to take care of them as much as they all take care of me, especially when they’re not taking care of themselves properly. Like, that time Niall got bronchitis, y’know?”  
  
Louis doesn’t know, but _obviously_ he’d like to know, yeah?. So he waits for Harry to go on.  
  
“So, y’see, Niall’s absolutely _terrible_ when he’s sick. Like, he never wants to take a day off, never wants to even _admit_ he’s feeling poorly, even when it’s obvious he’s sick as a dog. We’ve even had to tie him to his bed a couple times just to keep him on bedrest when he’s had the flu. Like, we had to spoon feed him soup and everything. Except he’d spend the whole time trying to wiggle out so his bed ended up like in _The Exorcist_. Every time. Not even his mum can keep him in bed when he doesn’t want to stay in it, not even his nana, and she calls him all the way from Mullingar.”  
  
Ah, alphas. It’s long been said that alphas are their own form of population control, on account of some of them being so stubborn and bullheaded. His gran liked to say that “An alpha who’s gotten lost looking for the Pearly Gates wouldn’t even ask Saint Peter for directions.”  
  
“Anyway, so one time he got a chest infection, and it got so bad that it was like full-blown bronchitis, and after he got a bit better he was still an absolute mess for a month after, because we _still_ couldn’t get him to stay home. And then Zayn said something like ‘The only way we’ll keep him out of the studio is if he was an ocean away!’ Which was when we got the brilliant idea to send him to the States, on a _spa trip_. A real covert operation it was, we had to like kidnap him in the dead-of-night and everything.”  
  
“Do they let wriggling, kidnapped people on planes?”  
  
“Well no, ’s why we had to use a private jet from my label.” Because _of course_ they did.  
  
“Anyway, so we like kidnapped him in the middle of the night, got him at his weakest, y’know, bundled him up on the plane, and before he knew it he was waking up in the swankiest hotel in Palm Springs, Florida.”  
  
“What stopped him from just jumping on a plane back to England?”  
  
“Well we took everything off him. His wallet, his passport, everything. And we paid for anything he could want beforehand, opened up a direct line of credit. And then we ran off back to London so he couldn’t kill us. We figured we’d go back in about a month to pick him up.”  
  
“So it… _worked_?” Color him surprised.  
  
Harry shrugs, _who else could be this nonchalant about first-degree kidnapping_ , “For the most part, yeah. Apparently he spent most of the time golfing and making friends with retirees. _Palm Springs_ , y’know? But then, three weeks in we all woke up in our own homes tied to our beds, and when I finally got free I found out that all the beer in my house was just _gone_. Same for Zayn and Liam. He came back and stole all our booze like some drunk Avenger, and the next day when I got to the studio he was just _there_ , like he’d never left. Apparently American beer really didn't work for him."  
  
Beer-stealing aside, “How the hell did he get back without a passport or any money?”  
  
“Well you know, our Nialler, he can make friends with anybody. And it turned out that one of his new “golf buddies” was like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. So he gets the guy to just let him borrow his private jet, no questions asked.” Harry’s tone is half-exasperated, half- overwhelmingly fond.  
  
“Just like that?”

  
 “Just like that. And, the guy’s wife knits him a sweater before he leaves because she’s heard ‘England is very chilly.’ But the good thing is, now, Niall takes like a month off every year to go see them in Palm Springs.”  
  
“You’ve got some weird friends, Harry Styles.”  
  
“You know you love it, baby. And they’re going to be yours as well, soon enough.”  
  
Soon enough.  


*

  
The car ride’s as long as anything. Plus, they’d left just in time to be caught up in the evening rush hour. So a trip that’d normally take only a little over three hours had ballooned into double the time, and it’s long past gone dark.  
  
Louis would give anything to keep talking with Harry. Listen to him big-up his friends that segue into little stories about Harry himself. Louis doesn’t know if Harry even realizes he’s doing it, but it’s completely endearing to see how much Harry loves his friends.  
  
But he’s more than a bit worn-out from the excitement of the day, and it’s not long after nightfall that Louis’ eyes grow heavy.  
  
The last thing he remembers before surrendering to exhaustion is Harry’s hand, light on his cheek, telling him to get some rest.  
  
“Sweet dreams, Lou-baby.”  


*

  
Louis wakes up on what he thinks might very well be a cloud.  
  
In fact, it’s just a very soft bed, almost impossibly soft. Like one of those memory foam deals that Mrs. Hudson writes-off as “for old fuddy-duddies who want to die in their beds.”  
  
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson strongly believes in the value of a good, rock-hard mattress for all her tenants.  
  
Seeing as he’s decided never to leave his current bed, Louis can definitely say he doesn’t quite agree with Mrs. Hudson.  
  
Louis is just preparing to burrow further into the massive covers when he’s interrupted by a knock on the door, and he says “Come in!” on reflex, even though he doesn’t really know where “in” is, although he fully expects it to involve Harry.  
  
Unless they were somehow waylaid on the A1 while he was asleep, and Louis has been unwittingly kidnapped by a highwayman of some sort and he’s now being held for ransom in some house on the moors. Wherever “the moors” were, Mrs. Thurston always seemed to think they were the perfect setting for feats of romantic, daring rescue. For all he knows Harry’s coming to rescue him from mortal peril, ready to burst in with curls in complete disarray and nothing but his fists. They’d be fucked.  
  
Of course, Louis’ wild imagination aside, it’s definitely Harry that enters the room, at an easy pace that tells Louis this is probably Harry’s home rather than any bandit’s. Harry’s looking rather well-rested and dressed in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. A rather vivid pair emblazoned with rubber duckies.  
  
For the first time since they’ve met, Louis can honestly say he’s more entranced by Harry’s actual trousers than what’s in them. Harry’s early-morning shirtlessness, even with his myriad tattoos, is less distracting than the fucking pajama bottoms.  
  
“Morning love, sleep well?” _Hello love, how are you love, I love you, love._  
  
“Yeah, o’course. but where’d you sleep?” God knows the bed’s big enough for two with room to spare.  
  
“Oh this is the guest room, um, I didn’t want to presume…”  
  
“It’s fine Harry, I wouldn’t have minded either way.”  
  
Logically, Louis knows the room’s being filled with light on account of the sun being up. But Harry’s smile is really giving the big star in the sky a run for it’s money as he says, “Ready for breakfast?”  
  
“Yes, please, I’m bloody starving. I don’t think I’ve eaten since yesterday afternoon.” Between food and kisses, Louis had found that Harry’s kisses were a much more compelling use for his mouth.  
  
“Oh! I hope I made enough then.” Harry scrambles out the room and comes back with a frankly humongous breakfast tray, gently sets it in front of Louis before he sits himself on the edge of the bed.  
  
It’s a full English breakfast. An absolutely fucking beautiful masterpiece. Filled with all the sorts of things that Louis’ craving. With bread that looks like it must be the special homemade kind Harry was raving about, it really looks so amazing it could almost bring a tear to his eye. Which turns into a giggle-snort once he realizes that the eggs and bacon are arranged into a rather deranged smiley-face.  
  
Louis grabs the fork, ready to dig-in, making sure to push the sleeve of the pajama top out of the way, as he wouldn’t want to drag it through the baked beans or anything.  
  
Which…the pajama top? A garish pajama top patterned with rubber duckies?  
  
“Harry, why are we wearing a hideous matching pajama set?”  
  
It’s always entirely endearing to see a grown-man blush.  
  
“Oh well, um, y’see when we got back I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so exhausted and pretty you know, and I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable in those skinnies and well, um, Iundressedyouandgaveyoumypajamatop.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I, um…took off your clothes and gave you my pajama top. It’s my absolute softest set, and, um, yeah. I promise I didn’t look! I’m not that type of alpha!”  
  
“Well it’s not like I would’ve minded. You’ll see it all eventually won’t you, Harold? Look at us, we look like a proper mister and his missus,” Louis hopes his wink comes off as more cheeky and less like some sort of worrying facial-tick, though it wouldn’t be the first time his flirting has ended with an offer to be driven to the hospital.  
  
“Um?” Harry looks like he’s really into the idea of Louis being his “missus.” He knows from his mum, alphas are always bizarrely transparent about things like this.  
  
“What I _would_ mind is if you don’t come here and share this amazing breakfast you’ve made with me, because I know I’ll try to eat it all by myself, and then I’ll regret the tummyache I’ll have later, and then that’ll be _all your fault_.”  
  
Harry sure can move fast with those long legs. As he’s getting in, Louis catches a glimpse of his back, and sure enough there are no less than three plasters covering what he assumes are various Louis-inflicted scrapes. Spongebob plasters, to be specific. It’s entirely charming.  
  
“Snuggling and breakfast in bed. How very lucky am I?”  
  
“I might be luckier” Harry says, as Louis feeds him a bite of fried egg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again, I went another two months without updating. Things...happened. But I wanted to get one last update out before my OTRA concert tomorrow/classes start up again. I hope the length of this makes up for it, it kinda ran away from me and turned into the length of like four average chapters. Well...it's a long car ride.
> 
> I threw in a Matilda reference and a few Spongebob ones just for kicks. See if you can spot them if you like.
> 
> I'll try to have another chapter up in the next couple months (at least before Christmas), but I also have some other stuff to work on. I've signed up for the bottom Louis exchange and I wanted to do some Halloween stories as well. And classes/clinicals besides. Can you see the order of my priorities?
> 
> Sorry if you wanted smut instead of cheesy fluff, they'll get there eventually. On the plus side, the boys are coming up next. 
> 
> Thanks for reading all the same.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Louis meets the boys. (His boys.)

Very rarely does Louis eat a big breakfast. The reasons are several.

For one thing, Louis financial situation can be described as, more-often-than-not, _skint_.

On his good days he can maybe scrounge up two pennies to rub together, and on his bad days?

On his bad days Louis takes up Mrs. Hudson’s offer of breakfast and spends the better part of the morning being asked his opinion on every singleton in a ten-mile radius.

In the old days, before she’d had her hip replacement, it might’ve been twenty.

_Thank goodness for small mercies_.

Potential starvation aside, the other reason Louis often abstains from big breakfasts—denies himself the joy of sausages and fried eggs and beans (and if he’s really feeling crazy, _black pudding!_ ), is that he will, more-likely-than-not (alright, _always_ ) fall asleep right after.

Just, out like a light.

He’ll crawl into bed and be dead to the world from morning until the better part of an afternoon. And even, on occasion—occasions that no one is to ever know about, because he is a fully-functional adult, into the night.

He really can’t be doing that, not when he’s only got a lonely little penny looking for a friend.

 

*

 

That being said, there are very few things Louis would think he’d have in common with the rich-and-famous. Or even just the rich. Certainly not the famous.

However, it seems that sleeping in until past noon is one of them.

It’s just as well. Nothing good in the world happens on Mondays. Nothing exciting anyway.

It’s why Louis doesn’t feel bad, not even a little, that he and Harry had fallen right back asleep after breakfast. Together, this time. None of that ‘propriety’ nonsense, which Louis doesn’t really know even a thing about, thanks. Not with Mrs. Hudson for a landlady.

She rather likes discussing the sordid details of her harlequin-of-the-moment over tea. Most of her enjoyment likely gleaned from Louis’ looks of horror at hearing things like ‘ _turgid member_ ’ and ‘ _heaving bosom_ ’ coming from the mouth of a woman old enough to be his nan.

Also, Louis knows for a fact that he is very, very cute even when horrified, and grandmothers love to have tea with him.

Not in the least because he makes an amazing pot of tea. Good enough you’d write home to your grandmother about.

All things considered, it really is a wonder Louis isn’t surrounded by doting grandmothers more often than not.

Anyway, Louis didn’t want to be dreaming of things like that, thanks very much. So he’d fallen back asleep to dreams of wild curls and big, strong, hands and, dimples that gave him the shivers.

You always, always have the nicest, sweetest dreams when you’re in love.

He’d read that off the back-cover of one of Mrs. Hudson’s books.

Funny how the things you learn in the weirdest places often turn out to be true.

 

*

 

Still, Louis wakes up and it’s _strange._

The bed’s the same, still pillowy-soft, like it’s stuffed with goose-down and candy floss. Which Louis imagines would be the softest stuff _ever._

But something is still not quite _right._

Not quite _the same_ as usual.

Could it be the mass of curls in his face? The nose pressed up into his neck, making little snuffling sounds that are _not at all_ cute? Maybe it’s the fact that all his limbs seem to be wrapped and tangled up in a completely different set of spaghetti arms and legs?

Honestly, it’s probably everything all at once.

Harry, all at once.

Louis would be loving it right now if he didn’t have to piss so badly.

 

*

 

Contrary to what the rest of the world may think, the whole of England doesn’t revolve around London. And so, Louis isn’t embarrassed at all by the fact that he’s never been.

Sure, Eleanor’s been raving all year about the parties and the clubs, about all the supremely-interesting people she’s met at uni, but so far Louis hasn’t ever been tempted to join her.

And, he’s always maintained that drink’s drink anywhere you go, and if he’s going to vomit all over himself he’d rather do it where he can just stumble home to his bed afterwards.

Stan’d gone up to see her at New Year’s, and he’d come back with a lighter wallet and a perma-smile for a week or so after, going on about “Beta beauties as far as the eye can see.”

Everything’s beautiful when your blood’s been replaced by pure alcohol though, and god knows, he’s heard Eleanor complain enough about the lack of date-able _anyone_ —alpha, beta, omega, _whoever_.

Louis knows he’s a hard act to follow, but he trusts Eleanor’s word over Stan’s. Thus, their general consensus was that while Londoners are supremely interesting— they are for the most part utterly undateable.

And it’s not like he’s afraid, okay? Afraid he’ll be lost in a sea of people where he’s just a nobody, nobody to take a second look at— nobody, nobody, _nobody_.

He’d been happy to stay in Doncaster, secure in the knowledge that he’d be just as able to find someone here as in London.

That is, not at all. Ever.

Not at all. Until, well, _somebody_.

Harry.

_Funny how London had become a thing when Harry had._

Tangible _._

But he won’t admit any of that to Harry, alright?

Even if Harry’s the one that makes him feel brave.

 

*

 

When it’s the middle of winter and night falls around 4pm, Louis will admit it’s a bit jarring to wake up in a pitch-dark room.

For him at least. For Harry it apparently means he has to get up and get in a quick workout before his trainer decides to come and murder him.

How his trainer would have time to come around past 8pm Louis doesn’t know, but Harry’s quite adamant that the man’s done it before and wouldn’t be averse to doing it again.

Louis is, and will-always-be-after-this-day be of the opinion that exercise is a terribly evil thing.

If only because Harry pops back in after two hours, ostensibly to tell him he’s about to go off for a shower, and, takes that moment, when Louis is rather distracted by his significant sweatiness, to declare that he’s had the brilliant idea that Louis absolutely must meet his friends tonight.

He probably doesn’t expect this to send Louis out of pleasant-sleepiness and into a panic, in his ducky pajamas, among the pillows of his cloud of a bed, for no less than twenty minutes.

Luckily, that’s still five minutes less than Harry needs to take a shower.

The best excuse he’s able to come up with on such short notice is that Louis can’t possibly go out into the dead of winter without a good coat, and all his clothes haven’t been unpacked yet. And doesn’t Harry know that Louis is terribly fussy about having his clothes ironed.

_He hasn’t been arsed to iron anything in his entire life._

His mum must have rather vivid memories of chasing his little five-year-old bum around the house, trying to catch the wrinkles out of him in his little Sunday suit.

Special occasions with baby Louis really were nightmares in themselves. If he wasn’t making millions of wrinkles in his best clothes he was trying to shed them all in one fell swoop.

It’d all gone so well for him until Mummy had discovered tiny little mini-braces, a mother’s secret weapon for little boys who didn’t like to _keep their bloody clothes on_.

Funny how Louis has such an affinity for the damn things now.

Harry, for his part, presents Louis with an array of no less than fifteen clothing options. Insists he try on all of them, and assures Louis that they’ll definitely find something for him to wear—even if Harry has to tear apart his entire closet.

Absolutely crushing any validity his excuse might’ve had with thousands of pounds worth of clothes.

He’d be vibrating with anxiety about it, if only he wasn’t completely swathed in Harry’s scent with every piece of clothing he tries on.

Louis is particularly fond of the lavender cashmere sweater he tries on first, and a shearling-lined jean jacket. Both much nicer than anything he’s been able to buy for himself over the years, but cozy like everything Louis loves to wear.

There are other things too, that Louis could see himself wearing. An army green duffle coat, with the same shearling lining, but thinner.

A trench coat that looks about the same as any other, though Louis knows enough that the little ‘Burberry’ tag in the lining means it must’ve cost upwards of a thousand pounds.

Harry seems to like Louis in anything he puts on, though in the end Louis still opts for a thick sweater, the lavender one that was his first choice.

He turns the funniest shade of pink-red across his cheeks when Louis’ head pops out of neckhole.

And they’re warm too, enough that Louis can feel it through the material of the sweater over his hands.

Harry’d only put on a t-shirt and shorts after his shower, but Louis thinks they could leave now and he’d still be warm enough. Judging from how red Harry’s face is getting.

As a matter of fact, Louis doesn’t have to worry that much about being cold either. Judging from how close Harry’s face is getting.

It’s really very nice to have someone to kiss, always, especially if they’re as good at it as Harry.

He imagines that Harry’s had quite a bit of practice, though it’s nicer to just think about how Louis is the one who benefits from all of it.

Before he knows it, it’s time for them to go. And Harry’s changed into a sleek silk shirt, and he’d struggled into skinny black jeans that Louis now understands are par for the course with Harry.

If he’s being honest, Louis thinks Harry might be a bit overdressed for going out into the dead of night. Although that being said, maybe he’s a little underdressed himself.

Well it’ll all even out anyway, because Harry’s pulled on a black wool greatcoat (Burberry as well, he’d snuck a peek), and he seems to think that the perfect thing to finish off his ensemble is Louis, tucked inside the coat with him, just under his arm.

For all intents and purposes, he and Harry, adding themselves all up, are now ‘dressed.’

 

*

 

Louis has often reminded his mum that his birth must’ve been the one bright light in the dead of winter.

Because Louis hates, hates, _hates_ the winter! He tells Harry as much, and the man ushers him into the car all the more quicker.

The seat warmers do help. Just a little. Luckily the studio where they’re meeting everyone is far enough that walking just isn’t feasible.

Personal heater to cuddle or not, Louis isn’t going to be walking anywhere out into the dead of night. Not when it’s this bloody cold out. Louis could really go on and on about how cold it is, and he does.

“Y’know, Niall reckons the winters down in Mullingar are about a hundred-times worse.”

Despite the fact that Louis has never met Niall, and that when they meet the man might turn out to hate his guts or vice-versa, he must soldier-on in the name of making conversation, “Oh, have you been, though?”

Or maybe dead air would’ve been preferable. He could swear he’s usually better at this.

Well, whether he’s distracted by driving or something else, Harry’s too busy to notice Louis being a failure at conversation, “Yeah, I used to take the Sligo train down before…”

His half-hearted shrug is enough for Louis to fill in the blanks himself.

Right. Because Harry couldn’t possibly do that now. Not when ‘Harry Styles’ now sells out entire arenas and has played to crowds of thousands in packed stadiums—and the occasional dimly-lit pub. Apparently, dimly-lit enough to maintain plausible deniability, but where he’s recognizable enough to the crowd to keep his indie-cred.

At least that’s what Eleanor says.

Louis doesn’t really understand why people don’t just listen to whatever music they like, trendy or not. And anyway, no one on the planet can stop themselves from dancing to Cascada. That’s just science.

But this is _famous_ Harry Styles, who more to the point, has got almost-as-famous, just-as-accomplished friends, who Louis will meet in approximately thirty minutes.

 

*

 

Louis is nervous as fuck.

Harry's closest friends, in no particular order, include: a Grammy-nominated producer, an artist whose works regularly sell for hundreds of thousands of pounds, and a man whose day job literally consists of saving lives.

In lighthearted comparison, Louis' most notable friendships include: a particularly persuasive car salesman—owing to his master's in psychology, the girl who dicked him all through upper-sixth, and his mother.

To be fair he does have a smattering of other embarrassing friends he likes to go out with when they’re around. Not that he's embarrassed of them, just that they're embarrassing in general.

In a ‘gets-too-drunk-and-pukes-in-his-own-pants’ kind of way.

Although to be fair, none of his friends would ever agree to a terribly-planned trip out into the wilderness.

Louis almost wishes his mum were here, he could use the comfort, someone to give him a little shake and a 'calm down Boobear, they'll love you.'

He's almost desperate enough to text Eleanor for a pep talk, despite the fact that as savvy and independent as she claims to be, she would most certainly hound him again for an introduction to Harry’s sister. Who Louis hasn’t even met yet.

Louis respects her for that, always knowing what she wants, but he has the worst poker face ever. And he hasn’t yet figured out how to seamlessly become one with the floor yet in embarrassing situations—which he’ll definitely end up in when Harry inevitably notices him furiously texting with crazy-desperate eyes.

But Harry does notice, probably because Louis’ face looks quite a bit more panicked than would be usual for a car-ride. It’s probably why he spends the entire drive telling Louis little embarrassing things about his closest friends— tidbits that are just enough to help Louis relax just a tiny bit.

Like how Liam’s mum still sends him new pants in the post every month— “His sister sent her a picture of Liam doing a set with his underwear inside out, and of course she thought the worst!”

Or how Niall had once drunkenly confessed to having had a ‘dream-threesome’ with the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, “Apparently it was the lime green skirtsuit that did it!”

And Zayn? Unfortunately, Harry has nothing embarrassing to offer about Zayn. “Zayn is practically-perfect in every way. I’ve even seen the wind style his hair for him—like he left the house with awful bedhead and the wind picked up just right and _it was only around him_.”

Well, two-out-of-three wasn’t bad.

*****

After Harry parks the car he makes a big fuss about opening Louis’ door for him. So Louis does let him, because it really is sweet.

Even after Harry bangs his shin in his haste, tall as he is, and they have to sit on the curb for ten-minutes while Harry pretends he’s not tearing-uncontrollably.

Because it’s ok to act dumb as hell in a new relationship—which is why Louis doesn’t feel silly at all, holding Harry’s hand the entire time.

*

 

He’s almost starting to think things are too quiet, going down winding hallways and empty staircases, until Harry opens the door to his usual studio.

Then it’s a cacophony of sound—loud, loud, _loud_.

Ah, yes _, soundproofing_.

Oddly enough, all Louis can hear is a continuous stream of squawking and grunting.

It’s suspicious enough that, alone, Louis would surely make a break for it.

But there’s Harry’s hand in his, and the man hasn’t even blinked an eye, so they’re probably not walking into a potential murder-den— _unless Harry’s in on it but he wouldn’t be because didn’t they already make plans for a cuddle later_.

Yes, Louis’ being ridiculous.

And doesn’t he feel even more so, after he sees the ball of wriggling limbs, rolling around on the carpeted-floor of the studio.

Well, more accurately, it’s a _stack_. Of Zayn and Niall, sitting on Liam.

Who would be the one squawking and trying to throw-off the two fully-grown men on top of him—hence the grunting.

Louis recognizes them from the pictures Eleanor had sent over weeks ago, gushing about “ _Gemma Styles newest collection. You know she’s doing menswear now Louis, although I don’t know if she’s going to making anything in XS, do you think a tailor would be able to resize anything for you? —”_

Which is about when Louis had hung up, because he wears a perfectly respectable size-S, thank you. Most of the time. He prefers his clothes comfortably-loose and cozy, alright?!

Well, unfortunately for Louis, absorbed as he is in his ruminations on the benefits of being compact (less wind-resistance while running, for one—not that he does any of _that_ ), he completely misses the two pairs of eyes zero-ing in on a new target.

It’s why he can’t so much as blink before Harry’s being dragged away, _squawking_ (and really, isn’t it odd with voices as deep as they do have, how Harry and Liam can so easily imitate chickens), two pairs of arms thrusting him into the soundbooth.

One pair of rather more muscular arms leading him to a suspiciously comfy-looking chair.

He doesn’t have to look twice to know that Harry is definitely locked inside that soundbooth.

It’s quite obvious now—they’d walked into an ambush.

Although it’d feel much more nefarious if Niall wasn’t now laying out an assortment of snacks in front of him.

If Zayn wasn’t handing him a bottle of mineral water while asking him how he took his tea— just a splash of milk, no sugar. Please and thank you.

If Liam wasn’t looking as earnest as a puppy, and fucking _dimpling_ at him— asking him if the temperature of the room was warm enough, offering to adjust the thermostat.

So Louis knows what this is. They’re not going to murder him, while Harry helplessly watches, unable to protect him (to be honest, Louis would _fully-expect_ Harry to hulk-out through the glass to save him).

This is, ‘Twenty Questions with Our Best Mate’s New Special-Person.’

He’d almost rather be murdered.

 

*

 

It’s Liam who goes first, apparently they’re going to take it in turns with each of their question-allotment, “Favorite color?”

Which is fairly innocuous, Louis was expecting the third-degree from the get-go, “Blue…green…bluey-greeny-blue? Like someplace in the ocean with a lot of sea turtles.”

Best to get it over with and let his inner-weirdo all out. Louis doesn’t want to be hanging about with anyone who doesn’t love, or at least very-much like, sea turtles.

But the boys are all nodding along, like what he’s said means very much, earth-shattering really.

Liam actually spends five minutes fiddling with his phone before handing it to Louis, and he almost can’t believe what he’s looking at, except it’s clearly a video of the boys releasing baby sea turtles into the ocean.

Utterly. fucking. surreal.

Then it Niall’s up next, “Favorite food?”

Apparently he’s so excited to learn Louis’ favorite food that he can’t seem to keep his legs still. Louis reckons the boy might be half-bunny, the way he’s bouncing every which way. He kind of wants to pet him. Kind of a lot.

“Mhmmm, well I like all sorts of things. Like Yorkshire puddings with the little divot in the middle all full-up with gravy. Or really, really, _really_ smooth mash. Or when you make a cheese toastie with too much cheese and it all flows out and gets lovely and crispy all around.”

He really could go on and on, “But really, I think I’d eat anything as long as it isn’t boiled sprouts. Boiled sprouts are Satan’s farts, and I actually do find them offensive.”

Louis is sure he won’t ever be subjected to the travesty of boiled sprouts, as Niall’s nodding along sagely at his answer, “True, true. I reckon me nan must’ve rung up the Devil himself for his recipe.

Now it’s Zayn’s turn, before they go all around in a circle again, peppering him with questions. And Louis is expecting another easy question again, but instead he’s asked, “How do you feel about Harry?”

If he tried to think about it, he wouldn’t have really known quite what to say, what to answer. But he’s been put on the spot, and he can’t seem to stop the words from pouring out, “Harry makes me feel braver than I ever thought I could be.”

Frankly he thinks his answer must be a bit naff, but they’re all smiling like he’s given them wonderful news. And he knows he’s passed muster when Liam claps him (a little _too_ enthusiastically) on the back, and Zayn says, “Full marks.”

 

*

 

When they’d started, Louis would have been treated to the sight of Harry, face squashed against soundproof glass, trying his best to hear _something_ of the conversation. Futile as it was.

As the questions went on, Louis would have seen his slow slide down the wall, anxiety giving way to acceptance.

When Liam finally let’s him out, Harry’s lying on the floor of the booth, face-up, mile-long legs stretched out every-which-way, “You know, I think I’m going to get new best friends.”

“Well that’s fine Harry, you can go on your way now because we’ve all decided we’d rather keep Louis.”

He’s up in a minute, indignant, “You can’t take my Louis!”

Liam’s rolling his eyes, swings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, “C’mon you great idiot, _your_ Louis is waiting for you.”

Harry goes, happily.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t know how his night had ended up like this, but he’s not complaining.

He’s squashed between Niall and Zayn, watching as Liam and Harry re-enact some ridiculous prank they’d pulled off in sixth-form.

Surprisingly, replacing a balloon drop with thousands of water balloons the night of prom wasn’t grounds for expulsion.

It did, unsurprisingly, give everyone in attendance free reign to beat the absolute living shit out of them.

That bit’s really not surprising at all, Louis knows how much formal clothing costs. Apparently the boys had survived by sheer virtue of the fact that they’d helped make prom that much more memorable.

If not for that they’d surely have been dead, stomped to death by a stampede of glittery heels and oxfords.

Besides the two fools reenacting their near-death experience, there’s Niall trying his hardest to wedge himself under his arm, while Louis has one hand in the blond’s soft floof of hair.

Zayn is alternating between popping green-eared Percy Pigs and Haribo bears in their mouths, chiding Niall to sit up so he doesn’t choke.

These boys fill up the room, and Louis hadn’t been sure at first that there’d be any place for him.

But they’d made a place for him.

It’s quite small but very cozy. And he thinks he’d very much like to stay.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone who's been waiting gets some enjoyment out of this. Thank you to everyone who's been reading. I'm no good at replying to comments but I do read every single one.
> 
> Side note: The green-eared percy pigs are vegetarian, and Haribo bears made in Turkey use exclusively beef gelatin. I feel like Zayn's the type to read labels and packaging minutiae, just to make sure.
> 
> If that lavender sweater ever makes an appearance again, on Louis' body no less, I will really just keel-over and die of happiness (this story would never be finished, but I feel a great many of you would be dead like me).


End file.
